ï 


THl    imUAKÏ 


A   rJBRARY   OF  FRENCH  MASTFRPIKCKS 

KDITKI)    liY    I'.D.MUN'I)    (iOSSK,  LL.I). 
With     roRiRAir  -  No  i  ks     iiy     Ociavk     Uzanne 


Iksi   I'c.'umf  coH/uùnj    Thtct' 
Coloured  Pl/ttfs  after 
It'atfr-tehur  Orarrings  by 
H/'\KI'  Dt-I.ASPRF. 


\/y^^  C^^P    ^*^^ 


KNGLISII     KDiriON 

A    I/iHRAkY   OF    French    MAsri:KiMi:ci:s 
KDITKI)    BY    KDMUNI)    GOSSK 

Pierre  and  Jean 

TRANSLATED    FROM   THE 
FRENCH    OF 

Guy   de   Maupassant 

WITH     A     CRITICAL     INTRODUCTION     BY 

THE     EARL    OF    CREWE 


ILLUSTRATED    BY 

HENRY   DELASPRE 


London  :    Tfie    London    Book    Co.      mcmvii. 


GUY    DE   MAUPASSANT 


In  the  long  portrait-gallery  of  men  of  letters 
there  are  many  figures,  including  some  of  the  most 
famous,  which  in  one  aspect,  at  any  rate,  have 
baffled  the  analysis  of  countless  critics.  The  rela- 
tion between  the  training  of  these  writers  and 
their  art,  between  the  lives  they  led  and  the  work 
they  did,  between  their  surroundings  and  their 
message,  remains  untraced  and  obscure  despite 
every  effort  of  loving  or  malicious  research.  Thus, 
above  all  others,  it  is  with  Shakespeare  ;  and  thus 
it  would  remain  if  every  fact  of  his  daily  existence 
were  known  to  us.  Thus,  in  differing  degrees  and 
for  various  reasons,  it  is  with  Cervantes  and  Swift, 
with  Keats  and  with  Heine.  Others,  on  the  con- 
trary, stand  out  clearly  as  the  best  product  of  the 
particular  set  of  circumstances  grouped  about  their 
lives.  They  seem  to  be  the  finished  result  of  a 
given  up-bringing,  of  a  precise  tutelage,  and  of  a 
chosen  career.  Of  tiiis  second  category  Guy  de 
Maupassant    is    a   singularly   complete    example. 


Guy   de   Maupassant 

Any  dinicully  in  classifyin*^  his  genius,  or  in  csti- 
inatinnllu'  pcrnunu-ncy  ol  liis  fanu\  arises  fmni  no 
mystery  enshrouding;  his  life  or  his  \vori<..  The 
cvohition  of  each  is  absolutely  slraighlforward  and 
coherent  :  he  traversed  no  "  caverns  measureless  to 
man  "  on  his  wav  to  the  sunless  sea  which  engulfed 
liim  at  last.  Through  his  single  volume  of  verse, 
through  his  six  novels,  through  the  multitude  of 
his  short  stories  and  fcuillclous,  the  succeeding 
phases  of  a  not  very  eventful  life  can  be  inierringly 
traced,  like  the  j)ath  of  an  explorer  on  a  map. 
There  are  glimpses  of  his  boyhood  at  Etretat  and 
Yvetot,  of  his  school-days  at  Rouen,  of  his  brief 
service  as  a  volunteer  in  1870,  of  his  clerkship  at 
a  public  department  in  Paris.  Then,  still  trace- 
able in  the  stories,  came  a  spell  of  life  in  the  capi- 
tal, first  in  a  small  lettered  society,  later  in  a  wider 
circle  of  acquaintance.  From  time  to  time  there 
was  a  little  travel,  quite  insuflîcient  to  free  him 
from  national  limitations,  a  great  deal  of  rowing 
and  sailing,  and  a  taste  of  fashion  on  the  Riviera. 
This  was  all  ;  and  amid  the  astonishing  variety  of 
incident  found  in  his  stories  he  never  passed  t)Ut- 
side  these  simjjle  bounds.  Other  great  writers, 
though  not  many,  have  refrained  from  describing 
what  they  have  not  themselves  seen.  Except  for 
a    few  rather    unsuccessful    excursions    into    the 

vi 


Guy  de   Maupassant 

SLipcrnalural  and  I  lie  uimatuial,  Maupassant  very 
rarely  touched  any  class  of  j)crsuns,  or  any  order 
of  subjects,  wliieh  lie  did  not  know  to  the  core. 
Whenever  he  broke  (his  iide,  his  hand  somewhat 
lost  its  cunning-  ;  he  was  completely  at  home  only 
when  he  moulded  and  remoulded  for  the  purposes 
of  his  art  every  fragmeiit  of  personal  experience, 
every  scrap  of  conhrmatory  information  and  illus- 
tration. There  were  not  many  tints  on  his  palette  ; 
but  he  blended  them  almost  to  perfection. 

The  form  in  which  these  experiences  were 
given  to  the  world  was  regulated  by  the  bent  of  a 
strong  animal  nature,  by  early  association  with  a 
peculiar  rural  society,  and  by  his  intimacy  with 
Gustave  Flaubert.  Never  perhaps  in  the  history 
of  letters  did  the  relation  of  master  and  disciple 
dovetail  more  nicely  than  between  Flaubert  and 
Maupassant.  It  was  not  the  outcome  of  a  casual 
enthusiasm  on  one  side,  or  of  a  blind  favouritism 
on  the  other,  but  the  development  of  an  old  family 
friendship  into  a  close  intellectual  bond.  Gama- 
liel's yoke  was  not  easy.  For  six  years,  steadily 
guiding  Maupassant's  course  of  study,  and  criti- 
cising its  results,  he  forbade  the  publication  of  a 
single  line.  As  his  pupil  had  written  verses  furi- 
ously from  the  age  of  thirteen  at  latest,  and  did 
not  publish  a  volume  till  he  was  thirty,  Flaubert's 

vii 


Guv   de   Maupassant 

curb  was  lit^litly  aj)j)liril.  lUil  Maupassant  never 
ceased  to  be  grateful  to  r irréprochable  viaîtrc  que 
fadmire  avajit  lous*  and  it  is  i)rctty  evident  that 
tlie  elder  man's  literary  inlluence  was  exercised 
almost  entirely  for  good. 

As  a  matter  of  course,  Maupassant  first  tried 
his  wings  in  verse.  Flaubert,  when  recommend- 
inff  Z)t's  Vers  to  the  iroud  offices  of  his  own 
publisher,  wrote,  "  His  verses  are  not  tiresome, 
which  is  the  prime  consideration  for  the  public, 
and  he  really  is  a  poet,  without  any  stars  and 
dicky-birds."  There  certainly  are  no  stars,  and 
prudish  readers  might  complain  that  there  is  a 
certain  amount  of  mud.  One  or  two  of  the  poems 
merely  celebrate  facile  amours  :  Fin  d'amour  and 
La  dcrnicrc  escapade  are  feuilletons  in  rhyme  : 
Propos  de  rues  is  a  sort  of  Iloratian  dialogue,  and 
Venus  Rustique,  the  most  ambitious  attemj)t,  for 
which  Flaubert  had  a  word  of  praise,  possesses 
some  of  the  eerieness  of  Baudelaire,  and  might 
not  have  been  disclaimed  by  Mr.  Swinburne  or 
Arthur  O'Shaughnessy.  But  in  the  same  year 
1880,  the  plant  which  had  been  so  long  maturing, 
and  which  had  been  so  rigidly  pruned,  bore  its  first 
real  fruit  in  its  true  form  of  prose.  The  incom- 
parable Boule  de  suif,  which  appeared  with  Zola's 

*  Dedication  to  Dts  Vers, 

viii 


Guy  de  Maupassant 

Attaque  du  Mouli)i  and  ollicr  episodes  of  the  war 
by  different  hands  in  a  volume  styled  Les  Soirées 
de  Medan,  was  at  once  hailed  by  tiie  author  of 
Madame  Bovary  as  a  veritable  master-piece,  in  a 
verdict  which  nobody  has  wished  to  disj)ute. 

Eight  years  later,  in  his  well-known  preface  to 
Pierre  et  Jean,  Maupassant  expounded  his  oj)in- 
ions  on  the  writing  of  stories.  It  is  a  somewhat 
ragged  piece  of  criticism  in  itself,  but  necessarily 
interesting,  and  demands  a  word  here.  What,  he 
asks,  arc  the  set  rules  for  writing  a  novel  ?  The 
answer  is  simple  :  there  are  no  such  rules.  A 
story  can  only  be  a  personal  conception,  trans- 
figured by  its  author  into  his  personal  realisation 
of  a  work  of  art.     As  Mr.  Kipling  puts  it  : 

"  There  are  nine  and  sixty  ways  of  constructing  tribal  lays, 
And  every  single  one  of  them  is  right!  " 

The  artist,  then,  says  Maupassant,  is  in  a  sense 
the  slave  of  his  personality  ;  he  must  write  as  he 
can,  not  as  he  would.  Romantic  or  realist,  he 
must  follow  his  bent.  The  goal,  therefore,  of 
training  such  as  Maupassant's  own  is  not  the  at- 
tainment of  an  absolutely  best  method,  but  the 
discovery  of  the  special  subject  and  the  scheme  of 
treatment  which  are  most  in  harmony  with  the 
writer's  mind.     As  Louis  Bouilhet,  another  early 

ix 


Ciiv   cic    Maupassant 

adviser,  used  lo  remind  Iiini,  an  output  of  a  luin- 
drcd  lines  is  enoui^h  to  stamj)  a  man  as  an  artist, 
if  tlu'V  are  (Jic  luindied  wliicli  e.\i)ifss  his  essence 
of  originality.  Hut  if  no  rules  exist,  is  there  no 
preferable  j)lan  of  writini^?  Ves,  Maujxissant  re- 
jilies,  there  is.  The  "objective"  method  on  the 
whole  gives  the  hapi)iest  results,  when  the  writer, 
having  formed  his  jirivate  conception  of  a  charac- 
ter, decides  what  action  is  the  inevitable  result,  in 
a  given  situation,  of  that  character's  state  of  mind. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  analytical  writer  j)ure  and 
simple,  who  sets  himself  to  explain  li'Jiy  his  char- 
acter acts  as  he  does,  is  brought  uj)  short,  so  to 
speak,  by  his  ego,  which  forbids  him  to  do  more 
than  guess  at  the  working  of  a  mind  alien  to  his 
own.  Thus,  by  the  exercise  of  intense  and  un- 
tiring observation  it  is  possible  to  conclude  liow  a 
man  of  well-defined  general  type,  such  as  a  strong 
sensualist,  a  weak  amourist,  an  ascetic,  will  probably 
act  in  the  situation  created  for  liim.  But  since  no 
writer  can  hiii"is>lf  be  all  these  three  men,  his 
analysis  will  often  be  at  fault  when  he  attempts  to 
trace  the  mental  processes  of  his  opposite. 

Nevertheless  Maupassant  admitted  that  admi- 
rable work  might  be  done  on  these  lines — as  indeed 
on  many  others;  and  though  most  of  his  writing 
was  based  on  objectivity  (a  dreadful  word,  as  he 

X 


Guy  de  Maupassant 

says),  ho  hy  no  means  neglected  the  formal  analysis 
of  character.  Pierre  ct  Jean  itself  is  to  a  great 
extent  a  psychological  story  ;  A^otre  Cœur  is 
nothing  else,  and  one  or  two  of  the  short  sketches, 
such  as  L Inutile  beauté,  arc  designed  on  a  similar 
principle. 

Maupassant  no  doubt  believed  that  the  "  objec- 
tive "  novel  found  its  best  modern  expression  in 
Madame  Bovary,  \\rA\.  unforgettable  work  which, 
like  the  Lyrical  Ballads  and  IVaverley,  lives  by  the 
double  title  of  intrinsic  merit  and  of  the  interest 
attaching  to  a  literary  revolution.  Flaubert  pointed 
out  the  road.  Maupassant  rarely  quitted  it  ;  but 
his  claim  to  be  numbered  among  great  writers  is 
enforced  by  the  fact  that  from  the  first  he  never 
slavishly  imitated  his  master's  gait,  or  paused,  so 
to  speak,  at  the  same  wayside  inns.  Of  the  six 
novels,  the  first,  U-ne  Vie,  which  appeared  in  1^83, 
naturally  shows  the  most  direct  stamp  of  Flau- 
bert's influence,  in  its  gray  pessimism  and  its  uni- 
formity of  background.  It  is  the  life-history  of  a 
girl  belonging  to  tXic  petite  noblesse,  the  only  child 
of  kind  and  rather  foolish  parents,  married  early  to 
a  worthless  vicomte,  who  turns  out  to  be  a  stingy 
profligate.  After  a  very  brief  love-dream  she  finds 
herself  deceived  and  outraged,  and  is  tragically  left 
a  widow  with  one  son.     This  child  of  tears  proves 

xi 


Guy   de   Maupassant 

as  weak  and  reckless  as  his  fallu,  r,  beiii^  extravagant 
besides.  The  book  ends  K  avinir  Jianne,  the  nuicli- 
tried  iieroine,  realizing  an  afterglow  c>f  tiiiderncss 
in  the  care  of  his  child  hy  a  di\ul  mistress  who  lias 
robbed  her  of  his  love  and  helped  iiim  to  ruin  the 
old  liome.  It  would  be  dilTicult  to  name  a  more 
depressing  book,  but  the  whole  workmanshij)  is 
admirable,  the  local  colour  is  faultless,  and  the 
characters  are  alive.  The  only  blol  on  the  story, 
as  a  story,  is  the  vengeance  of  a  rather  melodra- 
matic husband  on  the  vicoDitc,  by  machinery  which 
Maupassant  borrowed  from  an  early  short  story  of 
his  own,  and  which  is  scarcely  worthy  of  him. 
Une  Vic  is  not  htted  for  what  is  called  family- 
reading,  but  it  is  difficult  to  sec  why  the  Biblio- 
thhjuc  des  CJiemins  de  Fer  should  have  refused  to 
sell  it  in  a  country  where  the  extravagances  of  M. 
Catulle  Mendès  and  M.  Octave  Mirbeau  can  be 
had  for  the  asking.  A  boycott  of  this  kind  is, 
however,  an  excellent  advertisement,  as  Flaubert 
found  in  the  case  of  Madame  Bovary,  though  a 
threatened  prosecution  of  Maupassant,  on  account 
of  some  verses  printed  in  a  country  newspaper, 
might  have  had  graver  consequences,  owing  to 
their  author's  officiai  position. 

Three  of  the  remaining  novels  treat  of  different 
phases  of  life  in  Paris.   Bel- Ami  depicts  the  glorious 

xii 


Guy   de   Maupassant 

ascent  of  M.  Georges  Duroy,  scamp,  coward,  liar, 
and  blackmailer,  from  ancien  sous-ojf.  of  hussars 
to  courted  journalist  and  bridegroom  of  an  heiress. 
Fort  comme  La  Mort  and  Notre  Cccur  are  concerned 
with  a  quieter  society  in  the  capital.  The  scene  of 
Pierre  et  Jean,  in  some  ways  the  most  perfect 
of  his  writings,  is  laid  at  Havre  ;  while  Afont-Oriol, 
a  very  clever  and  observant  story,  which  yet  dis- 
plays here  and  there  a  certain  flagging  in  Maupas- 
sant's wonderful  gift  of  amusement,  dissects  the 
heart  of  M.  Andermatt's  wife,  and  the  fmancial 
operations  of  M.  Andermatt  himself  in  creating 
his  new  watering-place  in  Auvergne. 

Remarkable  as  the  novels  are,  both  in  style 
and  construction,  the  popular  estimate  is  probably 
not  far  wrong  when  it  attaches  even  greater  im- 
portance to  the  short  stories.  It  would  be  untrue 
to  say  of  Maupassant,  as  might  be  said  of  two  very 
distinguished  living  writers,  English  and  American,* 
that  his  genius,  so  far  as  prose  is  concerned,  found 
in  the  short  story  its  only  outlet  for  dramatic  ex- 
pression. But  the  fact  remains  that  while  some  of 
his  contemporaries  produced  novels  of  a  class  cer- 
tainly equal,  and  some  might  say  superior,  to  his, 
in  the  briefer  form  of  composition  he  was  unap- 
proached.     These  stories  were  collected  from  time 

*  Mr,  Bret  Harte  died  while  this  volume  was  in  the  press. 

xiii 


Guy  de  Maupassant 

to  time  l)ct\vcen  iSSi  and  1S90  in  sixteen  volumes, 
which  include,  however,  a  few  duplicates.  Since 
his  death  one  or  two  more  have  apjiearcd,  contain- 
ing, with  some  fresii  matter,  interesting  early  drafts 
of  sketches  afterward  worked  uj),  or  used  as  ej)i- 
sodes  in  the  Ioniser  hooks. 

The  tales  divide  liiemselvcs  into  two  distinct 
classes,  short  stories,  properly  so  called,  and  sketches 
and  feuilletons.  Of  the  short  stories  Boitle  de 
Suif  was  the  first,  and  not  the  least  striking. 
Something  must  be  said  later  of  Maupassant's 
choice  of  subjects,  but  setting  this  aside,  it  may  be 
questioned  if  fifty  pages  were  ever  more  cleverly 
filled.  The  economy  and  clearness  of  description, 
tiie  sharp  characterization,  the  whimsical  pathos 
and  the  scorching  satire,  place  this  first-fruit  of 
genius  almost  above  criticism.  It  is  hardly  neces- 
sary to  repeat  that  it  is  a  late  episode  of  the  War  of 
1870,  from  which  no  Frenchman  or  Frenchwoman 
emerges  with  credit,  except  for  such  left-handed 
honours  as  attach  to  the  poor  heroine.  It  says 
much  for  the  French  sense  of  humour,  that  irony 
which  so  ingeniously  pierces  all  classes  in  civil  life 
was  not  only  forgiven  but  enjoyed. 

The  list  also  includes  La  Afaisoji  Tellier,  with 
its  extraordinary  theme,  its  roistering  humour, 
and  its  strange  touches  of  humanity  ;  L Heritage^ 

xiv 


Guy  de  Maupassant 

the  outcome  of  Maupassant's  official  career,  a  mas- 
ter-piece of  irony  and  portraiture  ;  Y'vctlc,  a  rather 
brutal  story,  which  would  have  fared  better  in  the 
hands  of  Alphonse  Daudet  ;  and  Monsieur  Parent, 
a  most  masterly  study  of  middle-class  infidelity  in 
Paris.  All  these  exhil)it  niucii  of  their  author's 
very  finest  work.  Never  did  he  "find  hiniself" 
more  completely  ;  the  tool  fitted  exactly  to  his 
hand,  and  the  material  shaped  itself  at  his  biddinj^. 
It  is  impossible  here  to  attempt  any  formal 
classification  of  Maupassant's  other  stories,  which 
are  of  all  lengths  from  eight  or  ten  pages,  and 
even  less.  But  in  discussing  their  character,  it 
is  convenient  to  group  them  in  a  rough  arrange- 
ment. Foremost,  as  inspired  with  perhaps  the 
most  enduring  quality,  come  the  Norman  tales  of 
farm  and  peasant  life.  Maupassant's  annexation 
of  the  province  is  as  complete  as  Mr.  Hardy's 
of  Wessex.  Himself  sprung  from  a  race  of 
Norman  squires,  it  happened  that  his  mother 
follow^ed  with  particular  interest  the  simple,  if 
often  eccentric,  annals  of  their  humbler  com- 
patriots, and  never  tired  of  discussing  them  with 
her  son.  He  was  something  of  a  sportsman, 
too  ;  and  in  France  shooting  brings  different 
classes  into  closer  contact  than  it  does  here.  Thus 
equipped,  he  produced  some  twenty  tales,  chiefly 

XV 


Ciiiy   de    Maupassant 

"objective,"  foiuulcd  on  the  nicest  observai  ion  and 
saturated  wiili  local  ftclin^-.  Their  li^id  tnilli  is 
tliat  of  an  alVidavil;  there  is  no  extenuation  and  no 
malice  ;  the  shrewdness,  the  parsimony,  the  sordid 
brutality,  the  simjilicity,  the  faithful  devotion  of 
his  dilTerent  types  are  recorded  with  unsjxiring 
frankness,  and  without  the  slightest  attempt  to 
point  a  moral.  Such  portraits  as  those  of  the 
adopted  son  in  y///.r  CJuiDips,  of  the  supplanted 
child  in  Lc  Pire  Aniablc,  of  Ilautot  Pire  et  Fils, 
stick  closely  to  the  memory.  The  story  of  the 
Fillc  dc  Ferme  is  not  unworthy  of  Turgenev. 
Such  studies  of  manners  as  Farce  Norviande,  Le 
Baptcmc,  and  the  very  characteristic  La  JÏIartinc 
speak  for  themselves  with  their  spacious  breezi- 
ncss,  and  their  fidelity  to  fact,  which,  like  that  of 
the  great  Russian  novelists,  convinces  those  who 
have  no  means  of  testing  it.  It  is  a  great  merit, 
too  (would  that  some  of  our  writers  on  maios  de 
provùice  could  claim  it  !),  that  the  dialect,  depend- 
ing largely  on  astounding  elisions,  is  neither  so 
frequent  nor  so  obscure  as  to  puzzle  or  distract 
the  reader.  The  following  excerpt  from  La  Mar- 
tine is  typical.  It  describes  the  awakening  of  a 
rustic  lover.  Benoist  had  known  La  Martine  all 
his  life,  but  only  realized  her  charms  one  Sunday 
morning,  walking  home  from  church. 

xvi 


Guy  de  Maupassant 

"  'Nom  d'uji  7107)1,'  lie  said  to  himself,  'that's  a 
pretty  girl  all  the  same,  La  Marline'  lie  watched 
her  walking,  all  at  once  beginning  U>  admire  her, 
and  struck  with  a  sort  of  longing,  lie  had  no 
need  to  see  her  face  again — no.  lie  kept  his  eyes 
fixed  on  her  figure,  repeating  to  himself,  as  though 
speaking  aloud,  'Nom  d' uii  7U))/i,  that's  a  pretty 
girl.'  .  .  .  \Vhen  he  reached  home,  dinner  was  on 
the  table.  He  sat  down  opposite  his  mother,  be- 
tween the  labourer  and  the  farm-lad,  while  the 
maid  went  to  draw  the  cider.  He  ate  a  few 
spoonfuls  of  broth,  then  pushed  his  plate  away. 
His  mother  asked,  *  Have  you  anything  the  mat- 
ter?'* 'No,'  he  answered,  'it's  a  turning-like 
in  the  stomach,  which  stops  me  fancying  my 
victuals.'  He  watched  the  others  eating,  cutting 
from  time  to  time  a  mouthful  of  bread,  which 
he  carried  slowly  to  his  lips,  and  went  on  chew- 
ing. He  thought  of  La  Martine,  ,  .  .  'all  the 
same,  that's  a  pretty  girl.'  And  to  think  that  he 
never  noticed  it  before,  and  now  it  came  on  him 
like  that,  all  of  a  sudden,  and  so  upset  him  that 
he  could  not  eat.  He  hardly  touched  the  stew. 
'  Come,  Benoist,'  said  his  mother,  '  make  yourself 
eat  a  bit;-)-  it's  off  the  neck  of  mutton;  it'll  do 
you  good.     When  you've  no  fancy  to  eat,  you 

*  C'est-i  que  t'es  indispos  ?  f  Efforce  le  un  p'iieu. 

xvii 


Guy   (Je  Maupassant 

must  make  \()ursill'.'  Ile  swdllowctl  a  mouthful 
or  two,  iIk'u  pushed  his  philc  away  again.  No, 
it  wouldn't  go  down,  no  mistake  about  it.  When 
dinner  was  over,  lie  went  for  a  walk  on  the  farm, 
and  gave  the  lad  a  holiday,  saying  he  would  shift 
the  beasts  as  he  passed.  On  this  day  of  rest  the 
landseapc  was  emjity.  Here  antl  tluie  in  a  clovcr- 
heKl  the  eows  la\'  heavily  slrelehed  on  their  bel- 
lies, chewing  the  cud,  in  the  full  glare  of  the  sun. 
Ploughs,  without  their  teams,  wailed  on  the  head- 
land,  and  the  upturned  soil,  ready  for  sowing,  spread 
large  brown  scjuarcs  amid  the  yellow  fields  where 
the  stubble  of  tiic  lately  reaped  oat  and  wheat 
harvest  was  now  rotting.  A  rather  dry  autumn 
wind  passed  over  the  plain,  foretelling  a  cool 
evening  after  sundown.  Benoist  sat  on  a  dike, 
set  his  hat  on  his  knees,  as  though  needing  the 
breeze  on  his  forehead,  and  repeated  out  loud,  in 
the  silence  of  the  country,  'That's  a  pretty  girl, 
if  ever  there  was  one.'  " 

The  slow  process  of  the  human  ruminant 
could  hardly  be  presented  with  greater  simplicity 
and  directness. 

It  is  a  rather  singular  fact  that  so  far  as  Mau- 
passant is  popularly  known  in  England,  he  is 
specially  quoted  as  a  master  of  the  horrible  and 
grotesque,   a   sort   of    b^rench   Edgar    Poc.     This 

xviii 


Guy   de   Maupassant 

belief,  which  sccins  to  drjx-iid  on  a  single  story, 
Lc  I/orld,  is  curiously  ill-foumkd,  and  must  be 
disproved.  Maupassant  only  wrote  f(jur  or  five 
supernatural  stories,  and  nine  or  ten  relating  to 
crime  ;  and  it  may  safely  be  said  that  except  two 
powerful  sketches,  Lc  Vagabond  and  Lc  Diable, 
none  of  them  rank  among  his  best  work.  The 
vampire  talc  of  Lc  Iforla  gained  a  quite  factitious 
notoriety  through  its  supposed  bearing  on  the  at- 
tack of  general  paralysis  which  so  tragically  closed 
its  author's  career.  But  on  the  testimony  of  his 
mother,*  Maupassant  was  perfectly  well  and  cheer- 
ful wlien  he  wrote  Lc  L lor  la.  In  any  case  it  is 
not  a  very  alarming  fantasy,  and  it  belongs 
rather  to  a  class  of  semi-pathological  studies,  of 
which  a  word  \\\\\  be  said  later.  La  Pcîc7'  has 
some  good  moments,  especially  when  the  ghost 
of  the  slain  poacher  is  believed  to  be  prowling 
round  the  lonely  forest-lodge,  and  the  keepers, 
the  bravest  of  men  as  a  rule,  are  half-maddened 
with  terror.  L'Auberge,  an  Alpine  scene,  is  a  com- 
monplace story  enough.  In  fact,  whether  the  sub- 
ject relates  to  crime  or  to  the  unseen,  we  miss  the 
deep  authentic  thrill  which  distinguishes  such  mas- 
ter-pieces of  horror  as  Ufulc  Silas  or  Mr.  Henry 
James'  appalling  Turn  of  tJic  Scrczu.     Little  need 

*  A.  Brisson,  Portraits  Intimes,  4th  Series,  p.  63. 
xi>c 


Guy   de  Maupassant 

be  said  of  otlicr  stories  which  arc  really  i^atholop^i- 
cal  studies,  such  as  Qui  Sait  ?  which  treats  of  a 
madnian's  grotesque  illusion  ;  L'n  Cas  de  Divorce^ 
and  one  or  two  more  of  the  same  sort.  La  Petite 
Roque,  a  longer  tale,  describes  the  atrocious  crime 
of  a  jireviously  rei)utal)le  citizen,  and  contains  at 
least  one  jiowerful  sitiialion.  Hut  the  fact  is  that 
tiie  grisly  shapes  which  haunt  the  debatable  land 
between  the  kingdoms  of  A'^ice  and  Crime  and 
Madness  can  hardly  be  focused  for  purposes  of 
artistic  fiction.  People  curious  in  such  arcana 
will  be  better  advised  to  collect  facts  from  "the 
intelligent  police  officer"  in  charge  of  an  actual 
case,  and  pathology  from  a  Charcot  or  a  Crichton- 
Browne.  Lc  I^'ou,  whicli  relates  how  a  venerable 
judge  was  in  reality  a  homicitlal  maniac,  guilty  of 
countless  untraced  murders,  is  only  remarkable  as 
affording  perhaps  the  sole  instance  in  which  Mau- 
passant, intending  to  be  impressive,  is  positively 
ridiculous.  Still  the  false  notes  are  few,  and  this 
branch  of  the  subject  would  have  needed  little 
notice,  but  for  the  accident  of  its  undue  promi- 
nence in  this  country,  which  is  unjust  to  a  great 
artist. 

In  his  few  war-sketches,  and  scenes  of  military 
life,  Maupassant  never  again  approached  the  ex- 
cellence of  lioulc  de  Suif.     The  episode  of  Walter 

XX 


Guy  de   Maupassant 

Schnaiïs,  the  Prussian  prisoner,  is  humorous  and 
two-edged  ;  l)ut  some  more  sombre  stories  of  rus- 
tic vcngcanec  on  the  invader,  such  as  La  Mire 
Sauvac;i\  are  rather  strained  and  melodramatic  in 
idea  and  handUng. 

The  longest  category,  almost  of  course,  includes 
stories  concerned  with  love,  or  at  any  rate  with 
sex.  They  are  of  every  variety,  scattered  uncon- 
ncctedly  through  the  different  volumes.  Many 
are  mere  feuilletons,  clever  specimens  of  the  ordi- 
nary Parisian  pattern.  Others,  like  Lc  Papa  de 
Simon  and  L 'Infirme,  are  delicate  and  altogether 
attractive  pastels.  There  are  deep  notes  of  tragedy, 
as  in  Un  Fils  and  the  terrible  La  Femme  de  Paul. 
One  or  two,  such  as  L Ermite,  and  its  counterpart 
Le  Port,  are  outside  the  scope  of  art,  and  should 
join  the  erotomaniac  monstrosities  in  a  limbo  of 
oblivion.  But  with  these  exceptions,  or  even 
without  them,  there  is  no  story,  however  poor  in 
substance  or  trivial  in  purpose,  which  does  not 
exhibit  Maupassant's  wondrous  deftness  of  touch 
and  his  genius  for  identification.  Just  as  in  the 
Norman  series  one  shrewd  stingy  old  farmer 
differs  essentially  from  another,  so  these  light 
ladies  and  Decameron-like  lovers  are  no  two  of 
them  cut  from  the  same  pattern.  "  When  you 
pass  a  concierge  smoking  his  pipe,"  said  Flaubert, 

xxi 


(iuv   de   Maupassant 

"  show  him  to  im-  in  liis  own  nttitiuii'  and  com- 
pli'tc-  j)hvsical  aspect — wliich,  hy  tlic  skill  of  your 
presentation,  will  at  the  same  time  indicate  his 
wliole  moral  nature — so  that  T  mav  not  confound 
him  with  any  otlier  concicrc^c  in  the  world."  These 
observation-lessons  were  well  learned,  and  became 
at  last  a  second  nature  to  the  younger  novelist. 

In  a  critical  survey  of  Maupassant's  work  it  is 
impossible  altoirethcr  to  avoid  mention  of  his  atti- 
tude towards  womankind  and  his  handlin<j^  of  sex- 
relations.  Without  plun^inLi:  i'lto  the  eternal  de- 
bate upon  the  deference  due  from  art  to  morality, 
it  is  at  any  rate  plausibly  contended  that  a  work 
of  art  may  legitimately  deal  with  subjects  and 
problems  of  almost  every  kind,  provided  that  they 
form  an  essential  part  of  its  main  scheme,  but  not 
otherwise.  The  highest  artists  have  touched  many 
subjects  unsuited  to  general  discussion  —  even 
Southey,  one  of  the  Galahads  of  letters,  asserted 
that  "all  the  greatest  of  poets  have  had  a  spice  of 
Pantagruelism  in  their  composition,  which  I  verily 
believe  was  essential  to  their  greatness."  On  the 
other  hand,  impropriety,  as  a  mere  fringe  or  adorn- 
ment to  a  work  of  art,  is  inadmissible.  It  remains 
to  note  how  far  Maupassant  stands  this  not  very 
puritanical  test.  Much  of  his  best  work  bears  it 
fairly  ;  where  there  is  grossncss,  it  inheres  in  the 

xxii 


Guy   de   Maupassant 

subject.  If  Jhiulc  de  Suif  IkkI  Ixcn  a  jihiin  aii<l 
respectable  daily  govcnuss,  if  La  Maison  Tcllicr 
had  !)cen  a  well-conducted  drapery  establishment, 
if  the  legacy  in  IJ Ilérilui^c  had  depended  on  official 
promotion,  it  would  have  been  a  wiser  world,  but 
these  particular  stories  could  n(;t  have  been  writ- 
ten. This  is  an  artistic  if  not  an  ethical  justifica- 
tion for  their  existence,  and  is  all  their  author 
would  have  claimed.  In  Fort  coniuic  La  Mort 
Olivier  Bertin  falls  madly  in  love  with  the  daughter 
of  the  woman  whose  lover  he  had  been.  The  book 
is  a  haunting  tragedy,*  and  is  saved  from  offence 
by  the  gravity  with  which  the  dreadful  dilemma  is 
approached,  and  by  the  device  of  leaving  the  girl 
in  ignorance  throughout.  Sophocles,  after  all, 
trod  on  still  more  questionable  ground,  and  his 
works  have  not,  as  yet,  been  seized  by  the  police. 
At  the  same  time  it  would  be  affectation  to  pre- 
tend that  Maupassant  never  disports  himself  out- 
side even  these  liberal  bounds.  Some  of  the 
shorter  stories  are  no  (\ouht  grïvoïs  and  very  little 
else.  It  is  an  explanation,  if  not  an  excuse,  that 
these  were  mostly  written  in  haste,  as  pot-boilers  ; 
and  a  Paris  pot-boiler  is  likely  to  be  deflected  from 
the  path  of  austerity.     The  truth  is  that  Maupas- 

*  M.  Paul   Rourgct  has  treated   the   same  subject  with   exquisite 
skill  in  Le  Fantôme. 

xxiii 


Guy   de   Maupassant 

sant's  allituclc  as  a  wriicr  luwanls  ilic  whole  ques- 
tion is,  as  always,  the  outeonn-  of  iiis  personality. 
There  have  been  writers  far  less  lax  than  their 
books,  and  others  far  less  restrained  ;  he  himself 
was  the  gaillard  exubérant,  sensuel,  violent,  soulevé 
par  tous  les  désirs,  described  in  his  essay  ;  and  he 
had  no  idea  of  doings  violence  to  his  nature.  For 
however  little  his  point  of  view  may  be  coinmcnd- 
ed,  it  is  at  least  absolutely  natural.  It  lias  nothing 
in  common  with  the  leering  salacities  which  dis- 
figure the  pages  of  many  less  virile  writers  ;  it  is 
rather  a  manifestation  of  the  esprit  gaulois,  akin 
to  the  Rabelaisian  naturalisme,  the  cult  of  Physis, 
and  having  something  in  common  with  the  prodi- 
galities of  Whitman.  To  Maupassant  the  exist- 
ence of  sex  was  almost  the  prime  and  paramount 
fact  in  the  world.  It  beset  his  mind  with  a  per- 
petual appeal,  and  therefore  inevitably  strikes  the 
dominant  note  in  his  books.  There  is  an  odd 
simplicity,  sometimes  almost  ludicrous,  in  his 
frank  commiseration  for  those  who  by  inclination 
or  circumstance  live  otherwise.  To  him  an  elderly 
maiden  aunt  is  a  far  more  piteous  spectacle  than  a 
blind  beggar,  for  the  latter,  before  he  was  a  beggar 
and  blind,  may  have  known  the  joys  of  la  noee, 
whereas  the  poor  lady  is  past  praying  for.  The 
fate  of  the  vieille  fille  so  haunts  him  that  he  can 

xxiv 


Guy  de  Maupassant 

find  no  other  comparison  for  the  sterile  and  lonely 
moon,  which  has  inspired  so  many.  Those  to 
whom  this  diathesis  is  distasteful  nuist  read  some- 
thing else  ;  in  summarizing  it,  one  is  tempted  to 
parody  De  Quincey's  famous  topsy-turvy dom,  and 
to  represent  Maupassant  as  seriously  warning  the 
world  that  a  man  may  begin  by  merely  murdering 
a  lawless  couple  in  the  interests  of  morality,  but 
may  proceed  to  a  crusade  on  behalf  of  public  de- 
corum, and  end  by  lapsing  into  the  lowest  depths 
of  continence  and  celibacy.  Of  course  a  creed 
such  as  this  could  not  fail  to  leave  one  side  of  life 
incomprehensible  to  him.  An  ascetic  passion,  the 
glow  of  renunciation,  a  maiden  purity  not  based 
on  ignorance,  lay  beyond  the  scope  of  his  imagi- 
nation, and  all  his  admiration  for  a  greater  than 
himself,  Turgenev,  could  never  have  enabled  him 
to  create  a  Hélène  or  a  Lisaveta  Michailovna. 
Very  different  from  these  tender  Russian  master- 
pieces is  Notre  Cœur,  a  study  of  the  human  heart 
in  the  conventional  sense  of  the  word,  and  per- 
haps the  most  mature  and  careful  of  Maupassant's 
novels.  André  Mariolle,  its  leading  gentleman,  for 
hero  he  shall  not  be  called,  is  that  least  attractive 
of  creatures,  a  sentimental  sensualist.  The  story 
of  three  hundred  pages  is  entirely  devoted  to  the 
relations  between  him  and  the  fascinating:  widow 


't5 

XXV 


Cuv   (le   Maupassant 

Madame  de  Burne.  The  lady's  eharacler  is  drawn 
with  ainaziiiLT  insiL,dit  and  consisteney.  Slie  is  a 
perfect  egoist,  who  yet  dt'itends  on  affection  for 
her  joy  of  living  ;  a  creature  incapable  of  passion, 
who  yet  submits  to  the  tedium  of  encouraging 
passion  in  another  sooner  than  lose  him.  Mariollc 
falls  an  easy  victim,  owing  to  his  woeful  inexperi- 
ence from  the  Maupassant  standpoint  :  ''Son  esprit 
inquiet  .  .  .  l'avait  préservé  des  passions.  Quel- 
ques intrigues,  deux  courtes  liaisons  mortes  dans 
rennui,  et  des  amours  payées  rompues  par  dej^oiU, 
rien  de  plus  dans  r  histoire  de  son  âmei'  Ile  is  but 
a  child  in  these  matters.  Later  his  partial  disen- 
chantment and  efforts  to  escape  are  brilliantly  told. 
He  is  like  the  Roman  poet,  '\Juravi  quoties  redi- 
turum  ad  limina  nunquani  ;  cum  bene  juravi,  pes 
iamen  ipse  reditu  The  close  of  the  story  is  very- 
characteristic.  Madame  recovers  her  wanderer, 
apparently  for  good,  but  without  knowing  it  shares 
him  with  a  humble  rival,  a  petite  botine.  Thus, 
though  Venus  Victrix  triunii)hs.  the  stupider  sex 
avenges  itself  in  its  own  way. 

Maupassant  has  often  been  styled  a  pessimist, 
and  many  passages  in  this  book  and  others  could 
be  cited  in  support  of  the  contention.  Perhaps, 
however,  he  is  more  strictly  a  fatalist,  not  so  much 
disgusted  with  humanity,  or  disbelieving  in  its  high 

x.wi 


Guy  (le   Maupassant 

hopes  and  noble  iinj)ulscs,  as  convinced  of  tlicir 
general  fulilit\'  in  a  struggle  against  the  pressure 
of  nature  and  the  grij)  of  inexorable  circumstance. 
His  tragedy  is  thus  rather  of  the  Greek  t\i)e,  less 
concerned  with  the  play  of  character  than  with 
the  march  of  destiny.  His  depression,  again,  is  of 
the  sort  that  so  often  alternates  with  fits  of  high 
spirits  in  men  of  his  nature.  When  he  fairly  lets 
himself  go,  no  modern  French  noveHst,  except 
the  creator  of  Tartarin,  and  scarcely  any  English- 
man hut  Dickens,  can  he  so  absolutely  rollicking. 
La  Maison  Tcllicr  is  one  instance  ;  and  i)rudish- 
ness  itself  must  relax  when  hearing  how  sadly  the 
model  youth  of  Gisors  fell  short  of  the  standard 
proper  to  the  winner  of  good  Madame  Husson's 
prix  de  vcrtiL,  or  how  quartermaster-sergeant  Var- 
ajou,  on  a  visit  to  his  prim  relations,  unfortunately 
mistook  the  evening  party  of  Monsieur  le  Premier 
President  de  Mortemain  for  an  entirely  different 
order  of  entertainment. 

Another  charge  levelled  at  Maupassant  is  that 
of  hardness  and  imperfect  sympathy — "a  way 
without  tenderness,"  as  Dickens  said  of  Smollett. 
His  limitations  in  a  love-story  have  been  indicated 
above,  and  it  is  worth  while  to  consider  how  far 
the  accusation  can  be  sustained  or  refuted  in  other 
directions.     It  may  at  once  be  admitted  that  in 

xxvii 


Guy   de   Maiij)assanc 

these  books  deliglitful  characters — a  l^arson  Adams, 
an    rnclc    'lOhv,    a    CoIdikI    Ncwcouk' — will    he 
sought   in  vain.     Nor   an-   his  heroines  csj)ccially 
sympathetic.     Jeanne  in  U?ic  lie  has  all   the  vir- 
tues, for  once  in  a  way,  hut   is  too  entirely  a  vic- 
tim to  be  at  all  adorable.     On  the  other  hand,  it 
must  be  remembered  that  the  scheme  of  some  of 
the   books  positively  excludes  not   merely  admi- 
rable, but  even  likeable,  i)ersonages.     In  Jul-Anii 
the  excellence  of  the  satire  depends  on  the  varied 
worthlessness  of  everybody  ;  the  whole  tone  is  as 
7/«moral  as  in  one  of  Congreve's  comedies.     Or 
perhaps,  as  an   exhibition  of  the  purely  practical 
conduct  of  life  in   its    basest  aspects,  the    book 
comes  closer  to   Defoe  than   to   any  intervening 
novelist.     As  in  Moll  Flanders,  there  are  no  mag- 
nificent culprits,  or  deviations  into  even  criminal 
sentiment.     Mammon  and  Chemosh,  not  Lucifer, 
are  the  presiding  deities.      In  a  lesser  degree  the 
same  may  be  said  of  Mont-Oriol,  which  appeared 
in    1887.     But  two  years  later  IM.   V.  Brunetiere 
was  able  to  write,   "  Last  year  we  observed  with 
pleasure  the  modification  of  M.  de  Maupassant's 
genius — the  further  he  advances,  the  more  human- 
ity he  displays."     Certainly  Piorc  ct  Jean,  which 
evoked   this  eulogy,  is  not   lacking   in   profound 
pity  and  sympathy  ;  though  as  always,  the  author, 

x.wiii 


Guy  de  Maupassant 

dreading  the  creation  of  a  hero  in  tlie  usual  sense, 
exercises  much  restraint  in  drawing  his  principal 
character.  There  is  nothing  heroic  in  Pierre  Ro- 
land, l)Ut  fate  deals  him  some  hard  hufTets.  In 
the  following  scene  the  son,  whose  younger 
brother  has  been  left  a  fortune  by  an  old  friend  of 
his  mother's,  fights  against  the  conviction  that 
there  is  something  sinister  about  the  legacy.  It  is 
an  illustration  alike  of  Maupassant's  intense  vivid- 
ness, and  of  his  art  in  analyzing  a  complex  emo- 
tion. Pierre  has  wandered  down  to  the  harbour 
at  night,  and  has  been  feverishly  recalling  the 
visits  of  the  dead  friend  in  old  days — his  manner 
to  each  of  the  boys — a  half-forgotten  portrait — a 
possible  resemblance. 

His  misery  at  this  thought  was  so  intense  that 
he  uttered  a  groan,  one  of  those  brief  moans 
wrung  from  the  breast  by  a  too  intolerable  pang. 
And  immediately,  as  if  it  had  heard  him,  as  if  it 
had  understood  and  answered  him,  the  fog-horn  on 
the  pier  bellowed  out  close  to  him.  Its  voice, 
like  that  of  a  fiendish  monster,  more  resonant  than 
thunder — a  savage  and  appalling  roar  contrived  to 
drown  the  clamour  of  the  wind  and  waves — spread 
through  the  darkness,  across  the  sea,  which  was 
invisible  under  its  shroud  of  fog.  And  again, 
through  the   mist,   far  and  near,  responsive  cries 

xxix 


Guy  de   Maupassant 

went  uj)  ic)  tlic  niL;ht.  Thcy  wcic  tcnihiiiL:,  these 
calls  given  foil  h  hy  the  <;rcal  blind  sttaniships. 
'I'hcn  all  was  silent  onee  more,  Pierre  had  opened 
his  eyes  antl  was  lookinj^  about  him,  startled  to 
find  himself  here,  roused  from  his  nightmare.  "  I 
am  mad,"  thought  he  ;  "  I  suspect  my  mother." 
And  a  surge  of  love  and  emotion,  of  repentance 
and  prayer  and  grief,  welled  up  in  his  heart.  His 
mother  !  Knowing  her  as  he  knew  her,  how  could 
he  ever  have  suspected  her?  Was  not  the  soul, 
was  not  the  life  of  this  simj)le-minded,  chaste,  and 
loyal  woman  clearer  than  water?  Could  any  one 
who  had  seen  and  known  her  ever  think  of  her 
but  as  above  suspicion  ?  And  he,  her  son,  had 
doubted  her  !  Oh,  if  he  could  but  have  taken  her 
in  his  arms  at  that  moment,  how  he  would  have 
kissed  and  caressed  her,  and  gone  on  his  knees  to 
crave  pardon  ! 

Then  the  doubts  rise  again.  His  father  is  vul- 
gar and  unsympathetic  ;  the  friend  was  refmed  and 
charming.  Look  at  the  case  in  every  way,  the 
worst  might  easily  be  true,  with  comparatively 
little  blame  t(j  her. 

She  had  loved  him.  Why  not  ?  She  was  his 
mother.  What  then  ?  Must  a  man  be  blind  and 
stupid  to  the  point  of  rejecting  evidence  because 
it  concerns  his  mother  ?     Hut  did  she  give  herself 

xxx 


Guy   de   Maupassant 

to  him  ?  Why  yes,  since  tliis  man  liad  liad  no 
other  love,  since  he  liad  rcmaiiud  failliful  to  her 
when  slie  was  far  away  and  i^rowin^  old.  Why 
yes,  since  lie  had  left  all  his  foitune  to  his  son — 
their  son  !  And  Pierre  started  U)  his  feet,  fjuiver- 
ing  with  such  rage  that  he  longed  to  kill  some  one. 
With  his  arm  outstretched,  his  hand  wide  open,  he 
wanted  to  hit,  to  bruise,  to  smash,  to  strangle  ! 
Whom  ?  Every  one  ;  his  father,  his  brother,  the 
dead  man,  his  mother  ! 

To  assert  that  a  man  who  could  write  thus 
neither  felt  himself  nor  could  make  others  feel,  is 
palpably  absurd.  It  would  be  difficult  to  find  a 
more  poignant  passage,  instinct  not  with  pathos 
but  with  tragedy,  in  the  fiction  of  any  country  or 
time. 

The  healthier  side  of  Maupassant's  strong 
nature  developed  itself  in  a  love  of  outdoor  pur- 
suits. There  is  not  a  great  deal  of  sport  in  the 
stories,  and  in  one  instance  "'  his  natural  history 
seems  to  be  at  fault.  But  his  delight  in  scenery 
was  physical  rather  than  cesthetic.  He  compels  us 
to  see  with  his  eyes  the  rather  melancholy  quietude 
of  the  wide  Norman  plains,  the  dreary  marshes 
where  the  wild-fowl  hide,  and  the  silent  depths  of 
the  woodlands.     But  scenery  appealed  to  him  most 

*  The  sketch  called  L'Az/totir. 

xxxi 


Guy  de  Maupassant 

as  a  background  for  character  or  a  field  for  exer- 
cise, and,  so  far  as  water  was  concerned,  when  he 
could  not  only  look  at  it  hut  row  or  sail  upon  it. 
The  little  sketch  Sur  L 'Eau  gives  a  marvellous  pic- 
ture of  a  misty  moonlight  night  on  the  Seine  ;  and 
the  Mediterranean  volume  with  the  same  title 
shows  that  the  charm  of  the  south  could  enter  into 
his  northern  blood.  Tlie  limitations  of  his  genius, 
however,  are  obvious  when  he  tries  to  describe  not 
the  sights  and  incidents  but  the  reflections  of 
travel.  An  Soleil,  for  instance,  fares  badly  beside 
such  a  book  as  M.  Bourget's  Sensations  d' lia  lie. 
Maupassant,  in  fact,  was  no  critic,  and  he  was  also 
one  of  the  least  cosmopolitan  of  writers.  Where 
his  compatriots  are  concerned,  his  abstention  from 
caricature  is  remarkable  ;  but  his  English  are  of 
the  long-toothed  and  orange-whiskered  variety  dear 
to  the  café-concert,  and  either  remain  perpetually 
silent,  or  ejaculate  ''A' oh!''  at  fixed  intervals. 
These  are  small  matters,  and  a  more  possible  Miss 
Harriet  would  have  been  dearly  bought  at  any 
sacrifice  of  the  intense  nationality  of  the  French 
types. 

Maupassant  had  no  evangel  to  announce,  and 
would  have  indignantly  disclaimed  the  imputation 
of  a  moral  jnirpose.  The  world  is  therefore  ab- 
solved from  discussing  his  possible  aims  and  mo- 

xxxii 


Guy  de   Maupassant 

tives.  In  the  result,  lunvcvci',  it  may  !»<•  foiiiid 
that  his  influence  has  not  hem  more  injurious  than 
that  of  many  writers  more  pretentiously  moral. 
He  may  sometimes  be  corrupt,  but  he  is  not  cor- 
rupting; weak  minds  are  vitiated  by  "poisonous 
honey,"  but  not  by  the  crude  acid  which  he  pours 
into  them.  It  seems,  indeed,  to  be  a  case  where 
vice  loses  some  of  its  evil  by  retaining  most  of  its 
grossness.  Again,  the  honesty  of  his  method  en- 
forces a  lesson  of  its  own.  If  the  battle  between 
good  and  evil  is  fought  out  as  moralists  say  it  is, 
if  sin  brings  its  own  punishment  in  some  shape  or 
other,  even  in  the  form  of  impunity,  the  novelist's 
record,  if  really  true  to  life,  must  be  instructive. 
And  surely  this  is  so.  The  moral  of  a  book  like 
Fort  comme  La  Mort  is  nowhere  formulated,  but 
it  could  not  be  more  patent  if  it  were  presented  in 
the  leaves  of  a  religious  tract. 

Enough  has  been  said  above  of  Maupassant's 
aim  as  an  artist,  but  it  must  be  added  that  he  care- 
fully withstood  the  besetting  temptation  of  the 
realist,  the  endeavour  to  create  an  illusion  of  reality 
by  the  multiplication  of  trivial  details.  A  certain 
resemblance  to  Defoe  has  been  suggested  ;  but  the 
modern  English  writer  nearest  akin  to  Maupas- 
sant, in  spite  of  obvious  difference  of  outlook,  is 
Anthony  Trollopc.     This  may^  sound  like  a  para- 

xxxiii 


Guy  de  Maupassant 

dox  ;  luit  if  tin-  spiiit  of  Wychcrlcy  had  guided  the 
pen  fcr  the  author  of  tlie  Barsctshire  series  and 
The  Wax  //'(•  Liic  Xoi<\  the  residt  would  lia\-e 
been,  nut  a  JWrrc it  Jcau,  bul  sumcthing  not  nuich 
unlike  Mo)it-Oriol.  Phineas  Finn,  again,  earc- 
fullv  considered,  is  a  cleanly  analogue  of  Jn-i-.lniL 
It  niav  he  reckoned  among  Maupassant's  minor 
merits  that  in  one  resj-)ect  at  least  he  al\va\s  writes 
"like  a  gentleman  at  ease."  He  refrains  from 
raptures  over  the  mere  apparatus  of  luxury  and 
wealth,  the  Louis  Seize  furniture  and  the  divine 
toilettes  which  lure  some  other  novelists  astray. 
His  utter  unconsciousness  of  the  duties  of  author- 
ship is  also  delightful  :  there  arc  none  of  those  windy 
appeals  to  the  reader  which  irritate  the  most  loyal 
devotees  of  Thackeray.  On  the  other  hand,  a 
student  might  note  one  or  two  curious  and  excep- 
tional longueurs.  The  engineering  business  in 
Mont-On'ol  hecomts  rather  tiresome  ;  and  in  iXotre 
Cœur  an  irrelevant  sculptor  occupies  several  pages, 
only  to  show,  apparently,  that  the  would-be-clever 
ladies  thought  his  conversation  a  bore — as  possibly 
it  was.  The  habit,  too,  of  framing  very  short 
stories  in  a  narration  of  the  supjiosed  circum- 
stances under  which  they  were  told  by  a  friend,  is 
sometimes  a  little  trving.  Not  nuuh  else  can  be 
said  to  depreciate  the  genius  of   this  remarkable 


xxxiv 


Guy  de   Maupassant 

story-teller,  artist  doubled  with  Norman  /lobcrcaii 
in  a  combination  which  never  may  recur. 

A  final  paragraph  may  be  devoted  to  M;iuj)as- 
sant's  style.      It  is    presumptuous,  i)erhaps,  for  a 
foreigner   to    oiïer    any  opinion,  but    it    certainly 
seems    (hat    no    modciii    writer    has   made    more 
rational  use  of  his  splendid  inheritance,  the  French 
language,  that   unrivalled   medium  of  logical,  ej)i- 
grammatic  and  nervous  expression.     Ile  himself 
has  explained  his  simple  principle.    There  is  always 
one  word,  and  one  word  only,  to  express  a  writer's 
full  meaning,  and  that  word  has  to  be  found.     It 
is   useless   to    attempt    picturesqueness   by   using 
strange  or  obsolete    terms  ;    true    originality    and 
force  come    from  the    arrangement    of  plain  and 
familiar  words  according  to  their  exact  value  and 
rhythm.      An    admirable    precept,  for  once    in  a 
way  illustrated  by  its  author's  unvarying  example. 
Guy  de  Maupassant  will  long  be  remembered  as 
an  extraordinarily    skilful   and  original   writer  of 
stories  :  it  should  not  be  forgotten  that  nobody  of 
his   generation  has    done    more  to    maintain    the 
purity  of  the  French    tongue,  which,  as  he  said, 
flows  through  the  centuries  in  n   limpid  current, 
into  whose  waters  the  archaisms  and  preciosities 
of  succeeding  generations  are  cast  in  vain. 

Crewe. 

XXXV 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTE 


Henpu  René  Albert  Guy  de  Maupassant 
was  born  in  a  sixtccntJi-century  hotcse,  the  Châlcaïc 
de  Miroincsjiil,  near  Dieppe,  on  the  §th  of  Angust, 
iS^o.  His  father,  a  stockbroker,  claimed  descent 
from  the  ancient  Norman  proprietors  of  the  castle. 
Maupassant  was  educated  at  Yvetot  and  at  Rouen, 
and  became  a  clerk  in  the  Paris  JMinistry  of  Ma- 
rine. He  zvas  idle  and  unsatisfactory  as  an  em- 
ployé, and  in  iSyo  and  iSji  lie  left  his  office  alto- 
gether, servijig  in  the  zcar  as  a  common  soldier. 
He  returned,  and  rose  to  a  high  post  in  the  Cabinet 
de  r Instruction  Publique,  but  his  interests  iiozu 
settled  around  athletic  exercises  and,  more  ijidefi- 
nitely,  literature.  His  mother  (whose  maiden 
name  zuas  Mile.  Laure  Lepoiteviii)  was  an  inti- 
mate friend  of  Flaubert,  who,  about  iSyj,  began 
to  notice  the  powerful  elements  zuhich  lay  dormant 
in  the  intellect  of  Guy  de  Maupassant.  But  he 
zvas  disappoi7ited  by  the  early  sketches  which  he  in- 
duced the  yoimg  man  to  compose,  and  he  placed  his 

xxxvii 

a 


liiograpliic  al    Note 

protéine  under  a  severe  discipline  in  iJie  art  of  limit- 
ing. It  was  not  until  /SSo  t/uit  Maupassant  loas 
suddenly  made  famous  by  t7vo  published  volumes. 
The  one  was  a  collect iott  of  poems,  '' /\s  J 'e?'s," 
twenty  pieces,  most  of  them  of  a  narrative  char- 
acter, brilliant  in  execution  and  audacious  in  tone. 
One  of  these,  slightly  exceeding  its  fellows  in  cru- 
dity, was  threatened  with  a  prosecution  in  laiv  as 
an  outrage  on  manners,  and  the  fortune  of  the  book 
was  secured.  The  other  venture  was  equally  inter- 
esting. Afaupassant,  who  had  thrown  in  his  lot 
with  the  jVaturalist  A^ovelists,  contributed  a  short 
tale,  ''Boule  de  Su  if,"  to  the  volume  called  ''  Les 
Soirées  de  Médan^'  to  7vhich  Zola,  Iluysmans,  Hen- 
nique,  Céard,  and  Paul  Alexis  also  affixed  their 
names.  He  was  now  fairly  started  on  the  stream 
of  public  composition,  and  during  the  following  ten 
years  he  issued  tale  after  talc  with  itiifti^gging 
industry.  In  iSSi  ''La  Maison  Te  Hier,"  in 
iSSj  "  I\Iademoiselle  Fif  "  and  the  longer  novel  of 
"  Une  Vie"  competed  witJi  the  entertaining  short 
stories  called  "  Contes  de  la  Tc'casse  "  /;/  riveting 
public  attention  to  the  brilliant  young  writer. 
Maupassant  travelled,  and  he  recounted  his  ad- 
ventures in  "Au  Soleil"  (/SSf).  To  this  same 
year  of  abundance  belong  three  marvellous  volumes, 
named  after  a  principal  story  in  each,  " L^cs  Sœurs 

xxxviii 


Biographical    Note 

Rofidoii"  "J//ss  I  far)  ill"  a)i(l  ''Clair  dc  /.une." 
^'Yvette,''  a  short  uoi\l,  followed  •  and  it  now  be- 
comes possible  to  reeord  only  the  most  important  of 
the  vehement  author  s  flood  of  productions.  Avions^ 
these  must  certainly  be  included  his  five  great  real- 
istic romances,  ''  Bel-Ami"  iSS§ ;  '' ]\Iont-Oriol" 
iSSy ;  ''Pierre  et  Jean"  iSSS ;  "Fort  cojmne  la 
Mort"  i88ç ;  and  "Notre  Cœur"  iSgo.  In  ten 
years  he  brought  out  more  than  thirty  separate 
volumes.  A  life  of  excessive  tension,  and  a  reckless 
waste  of  energy,  however,  told  upon  his  co7istilu- 
tion.  Before  i8gi  he  had  begun  to  fail  in  nervous 
strength,  and  to  become  sitbject  to  odd  delusions. 
He  took  to  life  in  a  yacht  on  the  Mediterra7tean, 
but  zuithout  success.  He  was  ordered  to  Aix-les- 
Bains,  and  then  to  Cannes,  zuhere  his  insanity 
asserted  itself  in  a  variety  of  distressing  ways. 
Finally,  on  the  6th  of  January,  iSç2,  he  attempted 
to  kill  himself,  and  was  with  difficulty  removed  to 
Paris.  There,  in  an  asylum,  and  in  a  very  pain- 
ful condition,  he  lingered  until  the  6th  of  July, 
iSçj,  wJien  he  died.  Tivo  collections  of  short 
stories,  "Le  Ptre  Milan"  iSgS,  and  "Le  Colpor- 
teur" igoo,  have  been  published  since  his  death, 
and  a  curious  correspondence,  "Amitié  Amou- 
reuse" iSçy.  Maupassant  was  a  7nan  of  powerful 
physical  frame  and  tempestuous  passions,  capable 

xxxix 


Biographical    Note 

of  fricndsJiip,  but  not  easily  amenable  to  social 
conventions,  and,  in  the  hour  of  his  extreme  suc- 
cess, misanthropical,  suspicious,  and  unsympathetic. 
That  he  was  predestined  to  mental  disease  many 
touches  in  his  Xi'orh,  sane  and  powerful  as  it  is, 
have  been  thought  to  suggest  ;  and  in  particular  the 
extraordinary  vampire-story,  "  Lc  I/orla,"  iSSy, 
zuhich  deals  entirely  with  overmastering  nervous 

delusion. 

E.   G. 


xl 


LIST  OI'    ILLUSTRATIONS 


Portrait  of  Guy  de  Maupassant 


Frontispiece 


COLOURED    PLATES 

"  The  mistress  held  out  her  hand  to  the  tu-o  ladies  "    .    ro/ace/a^e    138 
''Jean,  with  beating  heart,  offered  his  hand  to  help  her 

down" ,,142 

"  Tlie  steamer  was  shrinking  every  second''         .         .  „         222 


THE    PORTRAITS   OF   GUY    DE    MAUPASSANT 


From  a  drawing  wade  in  1S88  . 

In  1880    

From  a  photograph,  1888  . 
From  a  photograph  by  Liébert,  18SÛ 
After  an  engraving  by  Boileau  . 
From  an  engraving  by  Lekat,  1S80 


rase 
229 

230 

230 

231 

232 

234 


zli 


OF   "THE   NOVEL" 


I  DO  not  intend  in  these  pages  to  jnit  in  a  i)lca 
for  this  httle  nu\'cl.  On  the  eontrary,  the  ideas  I 
shall  try  to  set  forth  will  rather  involve  a  eritieism 
of  the  class  of  psychological  analysis  which  I  have 
undertaken  in  Pic?'rc  and  Jean.  I  projjose  to 
treat  of  novels  in  general. 

I  am  not  the  only  writer  who  finds  himself 
taken  to  task  in  the  same  terms  each  time  he 
brings  out  a  new  book.  Among  many  laudatory 
phrases,  I  invariably  meet  with  this  observation, 
penned  by  the  same  critics:  "The  greatest  fault 
of  this  book  is  that  it  is  not,  strictly  speaking,  a 
novel." 

The  same  form  might  be  adopted  in  reply: 

"  The  greatest  fault  of  the  writer  who  does  me 
the  honour  to  review  me  is  that  he  is  not  a  critic." 

For  what  are,  in  fact,  the  essential  characteris- 
tics of  a  critic  ? 

It  is  necessary  that,  without  preconceived  no- 
tions, prejudices  of  "  School,"  or  partisanship  for 

xliii 


of  '^'Ihc   Novel" 

any  class  of  artists,  he  sliouKl  appreciate,  distin- 
guish, and  explain  the  must  antagonistic  tenden- 
cies and  the  most  dissiniihir  temperaments,  recog- 
nising and  accepting  the  most  varied  eiïorts  of  art. 

Now  the  Critic  who,  after  reading  J\[a?iOft 
Lescaut,  Paul  ami  Virginia,  Don  Quixote,  Les 
Liaisons  dangereuses,  ]]'eyt}ier.  Elective  Affinities 
(JVahhcrwandsehaften),  Clarissa  Ilarlowe,  Emile, 
Candide,  Cinq-Mars,  Rene',  Les  Trois  Mousque- 
taires, Mauprat,  Le  Père  Goriot,  La  Cousine 
Dette,  Colomba,  Le  Rouge  et  le  iVoir,  Mademoiselle 
de  Maiipin,  Notre-Dame  de  Paris,  Salammbô, 
A/ada me  Bovary,  Adolphe,  M.  de  Camors,  V Assom- 
moir, Sapho,  etc.,  still  can  be  so  hold  as  to  write 
"This  or  that  is,  or  is  not,  a  novel,"  seems  to  me 
to  be  gifted  with  a  perspicacity  strangely  akin  to 
incompetence.  Such  a  critic  commonly  under- 
stands by  a  novel  a  more  or  less  improbable  narra- 
tive of  adventure,  elaborated  after  the  fashion  of  a 
piece  for  the  stage,  in  three  acts,  of  which  the  first 
contains  the  exposition,  the  second  the  action,  and 
the  third  the  catastrophe  or  dénouement. 

And  this  method  of  construction  is  perfectly 
admissible,  but  on  condition  that  all  others  are  ac- 
cepted on  equal  terms. 

Arc  there  anv  rules  for  the  making  of  a  novel, 
which,  if  we  neglect,  the  tale  must   be  called  by 

xliv 


Of  ^*Thc  Novel" 

anolhcr  nnmc  ?  If  /Jon  Quixoic  is  a  novel,  tlicii  is 
Lc  Roller  ct  Ic  Noir -x  novel?  If  iMo)itc  Christo 
is  a  novel,  is  I'Assomrnoir  ?  Can  any  c(Mielusivc 
comparison  he  drawn  between  Goethe's  Elective 
Affinities,  The  Three  Moiisqiieteers,  by  Dumas, 
Flaubert's  Madame  Bovary,  III.  de  Caviors,  by 
Octave  Feuillet,  and  Germinal,  by  Zola  ?  Which 
of  them  all  is  The  Novel  ?  What  are  these  famous 
rules?  Where  did  they  originate?  Who  laid 
them  down  ?  And  in  virtue  of  what  principle,  of 
whose  authority,  and  of  what  reasoning? 

And  yet,  as  it  would  appear,  these  critics  know 
in  some  positive  and  indisputable  way  what  consti- 
tutes a  novel,  and  what  distinguishes  it  from  other 
talcs  which  arc  not  novels.  What  this  amounts  to 
is  that  without  being  producers  themselves  they 
are  enrolled  under  a  School,  and  that,  like  the 
writers  of  novels,  they  reject  all  work  which  is 
conceived  and  executed  outside  the  pale  of  their 
œsthetics.  An  intelligent  critic  ought,  on  the  con- 
trary, to  seek  out  everything  which  least  resembles 
the  novels  already  written,  and  urge  young  authors 
as  much  as  possible  to  try  fresh  paths. 

All  writers,  Victor  Hugo  as  much  as  M.  Zola, 
have  insistently  claimed  the  absolute  and  incon- 
trovertible right  to  compose — that  is  to  say,  to 
imagine  or  observe — in  accordance  with  their  in- 

xlv 


or  "'ïhc  Novel" 

tlividual  concc-plion  of  t)riL;iiialily,  aiul  that  is  a 
special  manner  of  thinking,  seeing,  unclerslanding, 
ami  juclgiiiLT.  Now  the  critic  who  assumes  that 
"the  novel"  can  he  delineil  in  conformity  with 
the  iileas  he  has  hased  on  the  novels  he  prefers, 
and  that  certain  immutable  rules  of  construction 
can  be  laid  down,  will  always  find  iiimself  at  war 
with  the  artistic  temperament  of  a  writer  who  in- 
troduces a  new  manner  of  work.  i\  critic  really 
worthy  of  the  name  ought  to  be  an  analyst,  de- 
void of  preferences  or  ])assions  ;  like  an  expert  in 
j)ictures,  he  should  sim{)ly  estimate  the  artistic 
value  of  the  object  of  art  submitted  to  him.  I  lis 
intelligence,  open  to  everything,  must  so  far 
supersede  his  individuality  as  to  leave  him  free  to 
discover  and  praise  books  which  as  a  man  he  may 
not  like,  but  which  as  a  judge  he  must  iluly  aj^pre- 
ciate. 

But  critics,  for  the  most  part,  are  only  readers; 
whence  it  comes  that  they  almost  alwa\s  f.iul 
fault  with  us  on  wrong  grounds,  or  comj)Hmenl 
us  without  reserve  or  measure. 

The  reader,  who  looks  for  no  more  in  a  l)Ook 
than  that  it  should  satisf\-  the  natural  tendencies 
of  his  own  mind,  wants  the  wiiter  to  respond  to 
his  predominant  taste,  and  he  invariably  praises  a 
work  or  a  passage  which  ajjpeals  to  his  imagina- 

xlvi 


Of  *'Thc   Novel" 

tion,  whcllier  idealistic,  «j^ay,  licentious,  melan- 
choly, dreamy  or  positive,  as  "striking"  or  "well 
written." 

The  public  as  a  whole  is  composed  of  various 
groups,  whose  cry  to  us  writers  is  : 

"  Comfort  me." 

"Amuse  me." 

"Touch  mc." 

"  Make  me  dream." 

"  Make  me  laugh." 

"  Make  mc  shudder." 

"  Make  me  wecj)." 

"  Make  mc  think." 

And  only  a  few  chosen  spirits  say  to  the 
artist  : 

"Give  me  something  fine  in  any  form  which 
may  suit  you  best,  according  to  your  own  tem- 
perament." 

The  artist  makes  the  attempt  ;  succeeds  or 
fails. 

The  critic  ought  to  judge  the  result  only  in 
relation  to  the  nature  of  the  attempt  ;  he  has  no 
right  to  concern  himself  about  tendencies.  This 
has  been  said  a  thousand  times  already  ;  it  will  al- 
ways need  repeating. 

Thus,  after  a  succession  of  literary  schools 
which  have  given  us  deformed,  superhuman,  poeti- 

xlvii 


Of  *^Thc   Novel" 

cal,  pathetic,  clKirniinp:  or  niagnificciU  pictures  of 
life,  a  realistic  or  naturalistic  school  has  arisen, 
which  asserts  that  it  shows  us  thr  truth,  the  whole 
truth,  and  nothing  hut  the  trulh. 

All  these  theories  of  art  must  be  recognised  as 
of  c(|ual  interest,  and  we  must  judge  the  works 
which  are  their  outcome  solely  from  the  point  of 
view  of  artistic  value,  with  an  a  priori  acceptance 
of  the  general  notions  which  ga\e  hirtli  tt)  each. 
Tt)  dispute  the  author's  right  to  produce  a 
poetical  work  or  a  realistic  work,  is  to  endeavour 
to  coerce  his  temperament,  to  take  exception  to 
his  originality,  to  forbid  his  using  the  eyes  and 
wits  bestowed  on  him  by  Nature.  To  blame  him 
for  seeing  things  as  beautiful  or  ugly,  as  mean  or 
epic,  as  gracious  or  sinister,  is  to  reproach  him  for 
not  being  made  on  this  or  that  pattern,  and  for 
having  eyes  which  do  not  see  exactly  as  ours  see. 

Let  him  be  free  by  all  means  to  conceive  of 
things  as  he  pleases,  provided  he  is  an  artist.  Let 
us  rise  to  poetic  heights  to  judge  an  idealist,  and 
then  prove  to  him  that  his  dream  is  commonplace, 
ordinary,  not  mad  or  magnificent  enough.  Hut  if 
we  judge  a  materialistic  writer,  let  us  show  him 
wherein  the  truth  of  life  difTers  from  the  truth  in 
his  book. 

It  is  self-evident  that  schools  so  widely  difTer- 
.\1\  iii 


Of  "  The   Novel  " 

cut  nuisl  have  adopted  diaiiictiically  opposite  pro- 
cesses in  composition. 

The  novelist  who  transforms  truth — inimu- 
tahie,  uncompromising,  and  displeasing  as  it  is — 
to  extract  from  it  an  exceptional  and  delight  fid 
plot,  must  necessarily  manipulate  events  witliout 
an  exaggerated  respect  for  probability,  moulding 
them  to  his  will,  dressing  and  arranging  them  so 
as  to  attract,  excite,  or  affect  the  reader.  The 
scheme  of  his  romance  is  no  more  than  a  series  of 
ingenious  combinations,  skilfully  leading  to  the 
issue.  The  incidents  are  planned  and  graduated 
up  to  the  culminating  point  and  effect  of  the  con- 
clusion, which  is  the  crowning  and  fatal  result, 
satisfying  the  curiosity  aroused  from  the  first, 
closing  the  interest,  and  ending  the  story  so  com- 
pletely that  we  have  no  further  wish  to  know 
what  happened  on  the  morrow  to  the  most  en- 
gaging actors  in  it. 

The  novelist  who,  on  the  other  hand,  proposes 
to  give  us  an  accurate  picture  of  life,  must  care- 
fully eschew  any  concatenation  of  events  which 
might  seem  exceptional.  His  aim  is  not  to  tell 
a  story  to  amuse  us,  or  to  appeal  to  our  feelings, 
but  to  compel  us  to  reflect,  and  to  understand  the 
occult  and  deeper  meaning  of  events.  By  dint  of 
seeing  and  meditating  he  has  come  to  regard  the 


or  ''The   Novel" 

world,  facts,  mm,  and  lliinu:s  in  a  way  peculiar  to 
himself,  which  is  llie  outcome  of  the  sum  total  of 
liis  studious  observation.  It  is  this  personal  view 
of  the  world  which  he  strives  to  communieatr  lo 
us  by  reproducing  it  in  a  book.  To  make  the 
spectacle  of  life  as  movinp^  to  us  as  it  has  been  to 
him,  he  must  brini;-  it  before  our  eyes  with  scru- 
pulous exactitude.  IKnce  lie  must  construct  his 
work  with  such  skill,  it  must  be  so  artful  under  so 
simple  a  guise,  that  it  is  impossible  to  detect  and 
sketch  the  plan,  or  discern  the  writer's  j)urpose. 

Instead  of  manipulating  an  adventure  and 
working:  it  out  in  such  a  wav  as  to  make  it  in- 
teresting  to  the  last,  he  will  take  his  actor  or 
actors  at  a  certain  period  of  their  lives,  and  lead 
them  by  natural  stages  to  the  next.  In  this  way 
he  will  show  cither  how  men's  minds  are  modified 
by  the  inlluencc  i)i  their  environment,  or  how 
their  passions  and  sentinuiits  are  evolved  ;  h(,)W 
they  Kjvc  or  hate,  how  they  struggle  in  every 
sphere  of  society,  and  how  their  interests  clash — 
social  interests,  pecuniary  interests,  family  inter- 
ests, political  interests.  The  skill  of  his  jilan  will 
not  consist  in  emotional  j)ower  or  charm,  in  an 
attractive  opening  or  a  stirring  catastrophe,  but  in 
the  happy  grouping  of  small  but  constant  facts 
from  which  the  final  purpose  of  the  work  may  be 

1 


Of  *'Thc   Novel" 

discerned.  If  wiiliiii  tlncc  lumdn-d  |)a,L(cs  lie  de- 
picts ten  years  of  a  life  so  as  to  show  what  its 
iiulivitlual  and  characteristic  significance  may  have 
been  in  the  midst  of  all  tiie  other  liuman  beings 
which  surrounded  it,  lie  ought  to  know  how  to 
ehminatc  from  among  the  numberless  trivial  inci- 
dents of  daily  life  all  which  do  not  serve  his  end, 
and  how  to  set  in  a  special  light  all  those  which 
might  have  remained  invisible  to  less  clear-sighted 
observers,  and  which  give  his  book  calibre  and 
value  as  a  whole. 

It  is  intelligible  that  this  method  of  construc- 
tion, so  unlike  the  old  manner  which  was  patent 
to  all,  must  often  mislead  the  critics,  and  that  tlu  y 
will  not  all  detect  the  subtle  and  secret  wires — 
almost  invisibly  fine — which  certain  modern  artists 
use  instead  of  the  one  string  formerly  known  as 
the  "plot." 

In  a  word,  while  the  novelist  of  yesterday  pre- 
ferred to  relate  the  crises  of  life,  the  acute  phases 
of  the  mind  and  heart,  the  novelist  of  to-day 
writes  the  history  of  tlie  heart,  soul,  and  intellect 
in  their  normal  condition.  To  achieve  the  efTect 
he  aims  at — that  is  to  say,  the  sense  of  simple 
reality,  and  to  point  the  artistic  lesson  he  en- 
deavours to  draw  from  it — that  is  to  say,  a  reve- 
lation of  what  his  contemporary  man  is  before  his 

li 


Oi   ''  lUc   Novel" 

very  eyes,  lie  must  l)rini::  forwanl  no  facts  tliat  arc 
not  iricfraL;il)lc  aiul  invai  iahlc. 

But  even  when  we  place  ourselves  at  the  same 
point  of  view  as  these  realistic  artists,  we  may  dis- 
cuss and  dispute  their  theory,  which  seems  to  be 
comprehensively  slated  in  these  words:  "The 
whole  Truth  and  nothing  but  the  Truth."  Since 
the  end  they  have  in  view  is  to  bring  out  the  phi- 
losophy of  certain  constant  and  current  facts,  they 
must  often  correct  events  in  favour  of  probability 
and  to  the  detriment  of  truth  ;  for 

"  Le  vrai  peut  quelquefois,  n'être  pas  le  vrai- 
semblable." (Truth  may  sometimes  not  seem 
probable.) 

The  realist,  if  he  is  an  artist,  will  endeavour 
not  to  show  us  a  commonplace  photograph  of  life, 
but  to  give  us  a  presentment  of  it  which  shall  be 
more  complete,  more  striking,  more  cogent  than 
reality  itself.  To  tell  everything  is  out  of  the 
question  ;  it  would  re(juire  at  least  a  volume  for 
each  day  to  enumerate  the  endless,  insignificant 
incidents  which  crowd  our  existence.  A  choice 
must  be  made — and  this  is  the  first  blow  to  the 
theory  of  "the  whole  truth." 

Life,  moreover,  is  composed  of  the  most  dis- 
similar things,  the  most  unforeseen,  the  most  con- 
tradictory, the  most  incongruous  ;  it  is  merciless, 

lii 


Of  '^'Jlic    Novel" 

without  sequence  or  connection,  full  of  inexplica- 
ble, illogical,  and  contradictory  catastrophes,  such 
as  can  only  be  classed  as  miscellaneous  facts.  This 
is  why  the  artist,  having  chosen  his  subjcel,  can 
only  select  such  characteristic  details  as  are  of  use 
to  it,  from  this  life  overladen  with  chances  and 
trifles,  and  reject  everything  else,  everything  by 
the  way. 

To  give  an  instance  from  among  a  thousand. 
The  number  of  persons  who,  every  day,  meet  with 
an  accidental  death,  all  over  the  world,  is  very  con- 
siderable. But  how  can  we  bring  a  tile  on  to  the 
head  of  an  important  character,  or  fling  him  under 
the  wheels  of  a  vehicle  in  the  middle  of  a  story, 
under  the  pretext  that  accident  must  have  its  due  ? 

Again,  in  life  there  is  no  difference  of  fore- 
ground and  distance,  and  events  are  sometimes 
hurried  on,  sometimes  left  to  linger  indefinitely. 
Art,  on  the  contrary,  consists  in  the  employment 
of  foresight,  and  elaboration  in  arranging  skilful 
and  ingenious  transitions,  in  setting  essential 
events  in  a  strong  light,  simply  by  the  craft  of 
composition,  and  giving  all  else  the  degree  of  re- 
lief, in  proportion  to  their  importance,  requisite  to 
produce  a  convincing  sense  of  the  special  truth  to 
be  conveyed. 

"Truth"  in  such  work  consists  in  producing  a 
hii 


Of  '^Thc  Novel" 

complete  illusiuii  by  following  the  common  logic 
of  facts  and  not  by  transcribinc:  ihcni  pcll-nRll,  as 
they  succeed  each  other. 

Whence  I  conclude  that  tlie  higher  order  of 
Realists  should  rather  call  themselves  Illusionists. 

I  low  childish  it  is,  indeed,  to  believe  in  this 
reality,  since  to  each  of  us  the  tiuth  is  in  his  own 
mind,  his  cnvn  organs  !  Our  own  eves  and  cars, 
taste  and  smell,  create  as  many  different  truths  as 
there  are  human  beings  on  earth.  And  our  brains, 
duly  and  differently  informed  by  those  organs,  ap- 
prehend, analyze,  and  decide  as  differently  as  if 
each  of  us  were  a  being  of  an  alien  race.  Each  of 
us,  then,  has  simply  his  own  illusion  of  the  world 
— poetical,  sentimental,  cheerful,  melancholy,  foul, 
or  gloomy,  according  to  his  nature.  And  the 
writer  has  no  other  mission  than  faithfully  to  re- 
produce this  illusion,  with  all  the  elaborations  of 
art  which  he  may  have  learned  and  have  at  his  com- 
mand. The  illusion  of  beauty — which  is  merely  a 
conventional  term  invented  by  man  !  The  illusion 
of  ugliness — which  is  a  matter  of  varying  opinion  ! 
The  illusion  of  truth — never  immutable  !  The  il- 
lusion of  depravity — which  fascinates  so  many 
minds!  All  the  great  artists  are  those  who  can 
make  other  men  sec  tlu-ir  own  paiticulai  illusion. 

Then  we  must  not  be  wroth  with  any  theory, 
liv 


Of  ''The  Novel'' 

since  each  is  simply  tiic  ouIcoiik',  in  generaliza- 
tions, of  a  special  temperament  analyzing  itself. 

Two  of  these  theories  have  more  particularly 
been  the  suhjeel  uf  discussion,  and  set  up  in  oppo- 
sition to  each  other  instead  of  being  admitted  on 
an  ecjual  footing:  that  of  the  purely  analytical 
novel,  and  that  of  the  objective  novel. 

The  j)artisans  of  analysis  recjuire  the  writer  to 
devote  himself  to  indicating  the  smallest  evolutions 
of  a  soul,  and  all  the  most  secret  motives  of  our 
every  action,  giving  but  a  quite  secondary  impor- 
tance to  the  act  and  fact  in  itself.  It  is  but  the 
goal,  a  simple  milestone,  the  excuse  for  the  book. 
According  to  them,  these  works,  at  once  exact 
and  visionary,  in  which  imagination  merges  into 
observation,  are  to  be  written  after  the  fashion  in 
which  a  philosopiier  composes  a  treatise  on  psy- 
chology, seeking  out  causes  in  their  remotest  origin, 
telling  the  why  and  wherefore  of  every  impulse, 
and  detecting  every  reaction  of  the  soul's  move- 
ments under  the  promptings  of  interest,  passion, 
or  instinct. 

The  partisans  of  objectivity — odious  word — 
aiming,  on  the  contrary,  at  giving  us  an  exact  pre- 
sentment of  all  that  happens  in  life,  carefully  avoid 
all  complicated  explanations,  all  disquisitions  on 
motive,   and   confme   themselves    to   let   persons 

Iv 


or  ^'Thc  Novel" 

and  events  pass  before  our  c'\  cs.  In  their  opinion, 
psycliolo<::y  should  be  concealed  in  the  book,  as  it 
is  in  reality,  under  the  facts  of  existence. 

The  novel  as  conceived  of  on  these  lines  gains 
in  interest  ;  there  is  more  movement  in  the  narra- 
tive, more  colour,  more  of  the  stir  u{  life. 

Hence,  instead  of  giving  lon^-  e.\planatit)ns  of 
the  state  of  mind  of  an  actor  in  the  tale,  thr  oi)jcc- 
tive  writer  tries  to  discover  the  action  or  gesture 
which  that  state  of  mind  must  inevitably  lead  to  in 
that  personage,  under  certain  given  circumstances. 
And  he  makes  him  so  demean  himself  from  one 
end  of  the  volume  to  the  other,  that  all  his  actions, 
all  his  movements  shall  be  the  expression  of  his 
inmost  nature,  of  all  his  thoughts,  and  all  his 
impulses  or  hesitancies.  Thus  they  conceal  psy- 
chology instead  of  Haunting  it  ;  they  use  it  as  the 
skeleton  of  the  work,  just  as  the  invisible  bony 
frame-work  is  the  skeleton  of  the  human  body. 
The  artist  who  paints  our  j)ortrait  does  not  display 
our  bones. 

To  me  it  seems  that  the  novel  executed  on 
this  {)rincii)le  gains  also  in  sincerity.  It  is,  in  the 
fust  place,  more  probable,  for  the  persons  we  see 
moving  about  us  do  not  divulge  to  us  the  motives 
from  which  they  act. 

We  must  also  take  into  account  the  fact  that, 
Ivi 


Of  ^^Thc  Novel" 

even  if  1)}'  close  observation  of  incn  and  women 
\vc  can  so  exactly  ascertain  their  characters  as  to 
predict  their  behaviour  under  almost  any  circum- 
stances, if  \vc  can  say  decisively  :  "  vSuch  a  man,  of 
such  a  temperament,  in  such  a  case,  will  do  this  or 
that  ;"  yet  it  does  not  follow  that  we  could  lay  a 
fmgcr,  one  by  one,  on  all  the  secret  evolutions  of 
his  mind — which  is  not  our  own  ;  all  the  myste- 
rious pleadings  of  his  instincts — which  are  not  the 
same  as  ours  ;  all  the  mingled  promptings  of  his 
nature — in  which  the  organs,  nerves,  blood,  and 
flesh  are  different  from  ours. 

However  great  the  genius  of  the  gentle,  deli- 
cate man,  guileless  of  passions  and  devoted  to 
science  and  work,  he  never  can  so  completely 
transfuse  himself  into  the  body  of  a  dashing,  sen- 
sual, and  violent  man,  of  exuberant  vitality,  torn 
by  every  desire  or  even  by  every  vice,  as  to  under- 
stand and  delineate  the  inmost  impulses  and  sensa- 
tions of  a  being  so  unlike  himself,  even  though  he 
may  very  adequately  foresee  and  relate  all  the  ac- 
tions of  his  Hfe. 

In  short,  the  man  who  writes  pure  psychology 
can  do  no  more  than  put  himself  in  the  place  of  :dl 
his  puppets  in  the  various  situations  in  which 
he  places  them.  It  is  impossible  that  he  should 
change  his  organs,  w^hich  are  the  sole  intermediary 

Ivii 


Of"  ^'ilic   Novel" 

between  exleni.il  life  aiul  ourselves,  wliich  eon- 
strain  us  l>v  llKir  jH-rccj^lions,  eireuniscrihr  our  sen- 
sibilities, and  ereate  in  eaeli  of  us  a  soul  essentially 
dissimilar  to  all  those  about  us.  Our  purview  and 
knowledge  of  the  world,  and  our  idias  of  life,  are 
ac(]uireil  by  the  aid  of  our  senses,  and  we  cannot 
lu'Ip  transferring  them,  in  some  decree,  to  all  the 
personages  whose  secret  and  unknown  nature  we 
propose  to  reveal.  Tims,  it  is  alwavs  oursehes 
that  we  disclose  in  the  body  C)f  a  king  or  an  assas* 
sin,  a  robber  or  an  honest  man,  a  courtesan,  a  nun, 
a  young  girl,  or  a  coarse  market-woman  ;  fcjr  we 
arc  compelled  to  put  the  problem  in  this  j)ersonal 
form  :  "  If  /were  a  king,  a  murderer,  a  prostitute, 
a  nun,  or  a  market-woman,  what  should  /  do,  what 
should  /think,  how  should  /act  ?"  We  can  only 
vary  our  characters  by  altering  the  age,  the  sex, 
the  social  position,  and  all  the  circumstances  of 
life,  of  that  rço  which  iiatuie  has  in  fact  inclosed  in 
an  insurmountable  barrier  of  organs  of  sense.  Skill 
consists  in  not  betraying  this  rj^'o  to  the  reader,  un- 
der the  various  masks  which  we  employ  to  cover  it. 

Still,  though  on  the  point  of  absolute  exacti- 
tude, pure  psychological  analysis  is  impregnable,  it 
can  nevertheless  produce  works  of  art  as  fine  as 
any  other  method  of  work. 

Here,  for  instance,  we  ha\e  the  Symbolists. 
Iviii 


Of   ^'Ihc  Novel'* 

And  wliy  not  ?  Tlicir  artistic  dream  is  a  \v()iiliy 
one;  and  tluy  liavc  tliis  especially  interesting 
feature  :  tiiat  they  know  and  i)roclaini  I  lie  extreme 
difficulty  of  art. 

And,  indeed,  a  man  must  be  very  daring  or 
foolish  to  write  at  all  nowadays.  And  so  many 
and  such  various  masters  of  the  craft,  of  such  mul- 
tifarious genius,  what  remains  to  be  done  that  has 
not  been  done,  or  what  to  say  that  has  not  been  said  ? 
Which  of  us  all  can  boast  of  having  written  a  page, 
a  phrase,  which  is  not  to  be  found — or  something 
very  like  it — in  some  other  book  ?  When  we  read, 
we  who  are  so  soaked  in  (French)  literature  that 
our  whole  body  seems  as  it  were  a  mere  compound 
of  words,  do  we  ever  light  on  a  line,  a  thought, 
which  is  not  familiar  to  us,  or  of  which  we  have  not 
had  at  least  some  vague  forecast  ? 

The  man  who  only  tries  to  amuse  his  public  by 
familiar  methods,  writes  confidently,  in  his  candid 
mediocrity,  works  intended  only  for  the  ignorant 
and  idle  crowd.  But  those  who  are  conscious  of 
the  weight  of  centuries  of  past  literature,  whom 
nothing  satisfies,  whom  everything  disgusts  because 
they  dream  of  something  better,  to  whom  the 
bloom  is  off  everything,  and  who  always  are  im- 
pressed with  the  uselcssness,  the  commonness  of 
their  own   achievements — these   come   to   rejiard 

lix 


Ol"  ^^  The   Novel" 

literary  art  as  a  thin::  uiKittainaMc  and  mysterious, 
scarcely  to  lie  tlelecled  save  in  a  few  pages  by  the 
greatest  masters. 

A  score  of  j)lirascs  suddenly  discovered  thrill 
us  to  tiic  heart  like  a  startling  revelation  ;  but  the 
lines  which  follow  are  just  like  all  other  verse,  the 
further  How  of  prose  is  like  all  other  prose. 

Men  of  genius,  no  doubt,  escape  this  anguish 
and  torment  because  they  bear  within  themselves 
an  irresistible  creative  power.  They  do  not  sit  in 
judgment  on  themselves.  The  rest  of  us,  Vvho  arc 
no  more  than  persevering  and  conscious  workers, 
can  only  contend  against  invincible  discourage- 
ment by  unremitting  elïort. 

Two  men  by  their  simple  and  lucid  teaching 
gave  me  the  strength  to  try  again  and  again  : 
Louis  Bouilhet  and  Gustave  Flaubert. 

If  I  here  speak  of  myself  in  connection  v>ith 
them,  it  is  because  their  counsels,  as  summed  up 
in  a  few  lines,  may  jirove  useful  to  some  }'oung 
writers  who  may  be  less  self-confidenl  than  most 
are  when  they  make  their  début  in  j)rint.  Bouilhet, 
whom  I  lust  came  to  know  somewhat  intimately 
about  two  years  before  I  gained  the  friendship  of 
Flaubert,  by  dint  of  telling  me  tfiat  a  hundred 
lines — or  less — if  they  are  witliout  a  llaw  and  con- 
tain the  very  essence  of  the  talent  and  originality 

Ix 


of  ^n1ic  Novel" 

of  even  a  sccoiul-iate  man,  arc  enou^^Hi  to  establish 
an  artist's  repulalioii,  made  mc  understand  that 
persistent  toil  and  a  ihorou^di  kn(nvlcd<;e  of  the 
eraft,  mi<j,iit,  in  some  hapj))-  iiour  oi  lucidity,  power, 
and  enthusiasm,  by  the  fortunate  occurrence  of  a 
subject  in  perfect  concord  wiih  the  tendency  of 
our  mind,  lead  to  the  production  of  a  single  work, 
short  but  as  perfect  as  we  can  make  it.  Then  I 
learned  to  see  that  the  best-known  writers  have 
hardly  ever  left  us  more  than  one  such  volume  ; 
and  that  needful  above  all  else  is  the  good  fortune 
whicli  leads  us  to  hit  upon  and  discern,  amid  the 
multifarious  matter  which  ofïers  itself  for  selection, 
the  subject  which  will  absorb  all  our  faculties,  all 
that  is  of  worth  in  us,  all  our  artistic  power. 

At  a  later  date,  Flaubert,  whom  I  had  occa- 
sionally met,  took  a  fancy  to  me.  I  ventured  to 
show  him  a  few  attempts.  He  read  them  kindly 
and  replied  :  "  I  cannot  tell  whether  you  will  have 
any  talent.  What  you  have  brought  me  proves  a 
certain  intelligence  ;  but  never  forget  this,  young 
man  :  talent — as  Chateaubriand*  says — is  nothing 
but  long  patience.     Go  and  work." 

I  worked  ;  and  I  often  went  to  see  him,  feel- 
ing that  he  liked  me,  for  he  had  taken  to  calling 
me,  in  jest,  his  disciple.     For  seven  years  I  wrote 

*The  idea  did  not  originate  witli  Chateaubriand. 
Ixi 


Of  '^  The   Novel" 

verses,  1  wiolc  talcs,  1  wvn  wioic  a  villainous  j^lay. 
Nothiiii^  of  all  this  remains.  'I'he  master  read  it 
all  ;  ilun,  the  next  Sunday  while  we  breakfasted 
together,  he  would  give  me  his  criticisms,  driving 
into  me  by  degrees  two  or  tiiree  principles  which 
sum  up  the  drift  of  his  long  and  patient  exhorta- 
tions :  "  If  you  have  any  originality,"  said  he,  "you 
must  above  all  things  bring  it  out  ;  if  you  ha\e 
not  you  must  acquire  it." 

Talent  is  long  patience. 

Everything  you  want  to  express  must  be  con- 
sidered so  long,  and  so  attentively,  as  to  enable 
you  to  fmd  some  aspect  of  it  which  no  one  has  yet 
seen  and  expressed.  There  is  an  unexplored  side 
to  everything,  because  we  are  wont  never  to  use 
our  eyes  but  with  the  memory  of  what  others  be- 
fore us  have  thought  of  the  things  we  see.  The 
smallest  thing  has  something  unknown  in  it  ;  we 
must  find  it.  To  describe  a  blazing  fire,  a  tree 
in  a  plain,  we  must  stand  face  to  face  with  that 
fire  or  that  tree,  till  to  us  they  are  wholly  unlike 
any  other  fire  or  tree.  Thus  we  may  become 
original. 

Then,  having  established  \\\r  truth  that  there 
are  nf)t  in  the  whole  world  two  grains  of  sand, 
two  flies,  two  hands,  or  two  noses  absolutely  alike, 
he  would  make  me   describe    in  a  few  sentences 

Ixii 


Of  ^' The  Novel" 

some  person  or  ohjcxt,  in  such  a  way  as  to  define 
it  exactly,  and  distinguish  it  from  every  otlier  of 
the  same  race  or  species. 

*'VVhen  you  pass  a  grocer  sitting  in  his  door- 
way," lie  would  say,  "  a  porter  smoking  his  pipe,  ctr 
a  cab-stand,  show  me  that  grocer  and  that  porter, 
their  attitude  and  their  whole  physical  aspect,  in- 
cluding, as  indicated  by  the  skill  of  the  portrait, 
their  whole  moral  nature,  in  such  a  way  that  I 
could  never  mistake  them  for  any  other  grocer  or 
porter;  and  by  a  single  word  give  me  to  under- 
stand wherein  one  cab-horse  differs  from  fifty 
others  before  or  behind  it." 

I  have  explained  his  notions  of  style  at  greater 
length  in  another  place  ;  they  bear  a  marked  rela- 
tion to  the  theory  of  observation  I  have  just  laid 
down.  Whatever  the  thing  we  wish  to  say,  there 
is  but  one  word  to  express  it,  but  one  verb  to  give 
it  movement,  but  one  adjective  to  qualify  it.  We 
must  seek  till  we  find  this  noun,  this  verb  and  this 
adjective,  and  never  be  content  with  getting  very 
near  it,  never  allow  ourselves  to  play  tricks,  even 
happy  ones,  or  have  recourse  to  sleights  of  lan- 
guage to  avoid  a  difficulty.  The  subtlest  things 
may  be  rendered  and  suggested  by  applying  the 
hint  conveyed  in  Boileau's  line  • 

"  D'un  mot  mis  en  sa  place  enseigna  le  pou- 
Ixiii 


or  ^^Thc  Novel" 

voir."  "lie  Luighl  the  puwcr  of  a  word  pul  in 
the  ri^^hl  i)lace." 

There  is  no  need  for  an  eccentric  vocabulary 
to  fornuilale  everv  sIkuIc  of  tli(»n_L;hl — the  conijili- 
cated,  multifarious,  and  outlandish  words  which 
are  put  upon  us  nowadays  in  the  name  of  artistic 
writing;  but  every  modification  of  tlie  value  of  a 
word  by  the  place  it  fdls  must  be  distinguished  with 
extreme  clearness.  Give  us  fewer  nouns,  verbs, 
and  adjectives,  with  almost  inscrutable  shades  of 
meaning,  and  let  us  have  a  greater  variety  of 
j)hrases,  more  variously  constructed,  ingeniously 
divided,  full  of  sonority  and  learned  rhythm.  Let 
us  strive  to  be  admirable  in  st}  le,  rather  than 
curious  in  collecting  rare  words. 

It  is  in  fact  more  difTicult  to  bend  a  sentence 
to  one's  will  and  make  it  express  everything — 
even  what  it  docs  not  say,  to  fdl  it  full  of  implica- 
tions of  covert  and  inexplicit  suggestions,  than  to 
invent  new  expressions,  or  seek  out  in  old  and  for- 
gotten books  all  those  which  have  fallen  into  disuse 
and  lost  their  meaning,  so  that  to  us  they  are  as  a 
dead  language. 

The  French  tongue,  to  be  sure,  is  a  pure 
stream,  which  affected  writers  never  have  and 
never  can  trouble.  Each  age  has  flung  into  the 
limi)id  waters  its  pretentious  archaisms  and  euphu- 

ixiv 


Of  **The  Novel" 

isms,  but  notliing  has  remained  on  the  surface  to 
perpetuate  these  futile  attempts  and  impotent  ef- 
forts. It  is  the  nature  of  the  hmgua<^e  to  be  clear, 
logical,  and  vigorous.  It  does  not  lend  itself  to 
weakness,  obscurity,  or  corruption. 

Those  who  describe  without  duly  heeding  ab- 
stract terms,  those  who  make  rain  and  hail  fall  on 
the  cleanliness  of  the  window-panes,  may  throw 
stones  at  the  simplicity  of  their  brothers  of  the 
pen.  The  stones  may  indeed  hit  their  brothers, 
who  have  a  body,  but  will  never  hurt  simplicity — 

which  has  none. 

Guy  de  Maupassant. 

La  Guillette,  Étretat,  September,  iSSj. 


Ixv 


PIERRE   AND  JEAN 


PIERRE  AND  JEAN 


CHAPTER   I 

*'  TsciiAii  !  "  exclaimed  old  Roland  suddenly, 
after  he  had  remained  motionless  for  a  quarter  of 
an  hour,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  water,  while  now 
and  again  he  very  slightly  lifted  his  line  sunk  in 
the  sea. 

Mme.  Roland,  dozing  in  the  stern  by  the  side 
of  Mme.  Rosémilly,  who  had  been  invited  to  join 
the  fishing-party,  woke  up,  and  turning  her  head 
to  look  at  her  husband,  said  : 

"  Well,  well  !     Gérome." 

And  the  old  fellow  replied  in  a  iury  : 

*'  They  do  not  bite  at  all.  I  have  taken  noth- 
ing since  noon.  Only  men  should  ever  go  fishing. 
Women  always  delay  the  start  till  it  is  too  late." 

His  two  sons,  Pierre  and  Jean,  who  each  held  a 
line  twisted  round  his  forefinger,  one  to  port  and 
one  to  starboard,  both  began  to  laugh,  and  Jean 
remarked  : 

"  You  are  not  very  polite  to  our  guest,  father." 
3 


Pierre   and  Jean 


M.  Kol.uul  was  ahasiu'tl,  aiul  apologized. 

"  I  bt'g  your  i)anK>n,  Mme  Ivoséniilh-,  luit  iliat 
is  just  like  me.  I  invite  ladies  because  I  like  to  be 
with  tluiii,  and  then,  as  soon  as  I  feel  the  water 
beneath  me,  I  think  of  nothing  but  the  fish." 

Mme.  Roland  was  now  quite  awake,  and  gaz- 
ing with  a  softened  look  at  the  wide  horizon  of 
clilT  and  sea. 

"You  have  had  good  sport,  all  the  same,"  she 
murmured. 

But  her  husband  shook  his  head  in  denial, 
though  at  the  same  time  he  glanced  complacently 
at  the  basket  where  the  fish  caught  by  the  three 
men  were  still  breathing  spasmodically,  with  a  low 
rustle  of  clammy  scales  and  struggling  fins,  and 
dull,  ineffectual  efforts,  gasping  in  the  fatal  air. 
Old  Roland  took  the  basket  between  his  knees 
and  tilted  it  up,  making  the  silver  heap  of  creatures 
slide  to  the  edge  that  he  might  see  those  lying  at 
the  bottom,  and  their  death-throes  became  more 
convulsive,  while  the  strong  smell  of  their  bodies, 
a  wholesome  reek  of  briiK\  came  iiji  from  the  full 
depths  of  the  creel.  The  old  fisherman  sniffed  it 
eagerly,  as  we  smell  at  roses,  and  exclaimed  : 

"  Cristi  !  But  they  are  fresh  enough!"  and 
he  went  on:  "llow  many  did  you  jnill  out,  doc- 
teur ?" 

4 


Pierre  and  jean 

His  eldest  son,  i^icrrc,  a  man  oi  tliirty,  with 
l)lack  uliiskcrs  trimmed  square  like  a  lawyer's,  his 
mustaehc  and  beard  shaved  away,  replied  : 

"Oh,  not  many  ;  three  or  four." 

The  father  turned  to  the  younger.  "  And  you, 
Jean  ?"  said  he. 

Jean,  a  tall  fellow,  mueh  younger  than  his 
brother,  fair,  with  a  full  beard,  smiled  and  mur- 
mured : 

"  Much  the  same  as  Pierre — four  or  five." 

Every  time  they  told  the  same  fib,  which  de- 
lighted father  Roland.  He  had  hitched  his  line 
round  a  row-lock,  and  folding  his  arms  he  an- 
nounced : 

"  I  will  never  again  try  to  fish  after  noon. 
After  ten  in  the  morning  it  is  all  over.  The  lazy 
brutes  will  not  bite  ;  they  are  taking  their  siesta  in 
the  sun."  And  he  looked  round  at  the  sea  on  all 
sides,  with  the  satisfied  air  of  a  proprietor. 

He  was  a  retired  jeweller  who  had  been  led  by 
an  inordinate  love  of  seafaring  and  fishing  to  fly 
from  the  shop  as  soon  as  he  had  made  enough 
money  to  live  in  modest  comfort  on  the  interest 
of  his  savings.  He  retired  to  le  Havre,  bought  a 
boat,  and  became  an  amateur  skipper.  His  two 
sons,  Pierre  and  Jean,  had  remained  at  Paris  to 
continue  their  studies,  and  came  for  the  holidays 

5 


Pierre  and  Jean 


from  time  to  time  to  share  tluir  fatiiei's  amuse- 
ments. 

On  leaving  school,  Pierre,  the  elder,  five  years 
older  than  Jean,  had  felt  a  vuealit)n  to  various 
professions  and  had  tried  half  a  tlozen  in  succession, 
but,  soon  disgusted  with  each  in  turn,  he  started 
afresh  with  new  hopes.  Medicine  had  been  his 
last  fancy,  and  he  had  set  to  work  with  so  much 
ardour  that  he  had  just  (lualilied  after  an  unusually 
short  course  of  study,  by  a  special  remission  of 
time  from  the  minister.  He  was  enthusiastic,  in- 
telligent, fickle,  but  obstinate,  full  of  Utopias  and 
philosophical  notions. 

Jean,  who  was  as  fair  as  his  brother  was  dark, 
as  deliberate  as  his  brother  was  vehement,  as  gentle 
as  his  brother  was  unforgiving,  had  (juietly  gone 
through  his  studies  for  the  law  and  had  just  taken 
his  diploma  as  a  licentiate,  at  the  time  when 
Pierre  had  taken  his  in  medicine.  So  they  were 
now  having  a  little  rest  at  home,  and  both  looked 
forward  to  settling  at  Havre  if  they  could  find  a 
satisfactory  opening. 

But  a  vague  jealousy,  one  of  those  dormant 
jealousies  which  grow  up  between  brothers  or  sis- 
ters and  slowly  ripen  till  they  burst,  on  the  occa- 
sion ()(  a  marriage  perhaps,  or  of  some  good  for- 
tune happening  to  one  of  them,  kej)t  them  on  the 


Pierre   and  Jean 

alert  in  a  sort  of  brotherly  and  non-aggrcssivc  ani- 
mosity. They  were  fond  of  each  other,  it  is  true, 
but  they  watched  each  other.  Pierre,  five  years 
old  when  Jean  was  born,  had  looked  with  the  eyes 
of  a  little  petted  animal  at  that  other  little  animal 
which  had  suddenly  come  to  lie  in  his  father's  and 
mother's  arms  and  to  be  loved  and  fondled  by 
them.  Jean,  from  his  birth,  had  always  been  a 
pattern  of  sweetness,  gentleness,  and  good  temper, 
and  Pierre  had  by  degrees  begun  to  chafe  at  ever- 
lastingly hearing  the  praises  of  this  great  lad, 
whose  sweetness  in  his  eyes  was  indolence,  whose 
gentleness  was  stupidity,  and  whose  kindliness  was 
blindness.  II is  parents,  whose  dream  for  their 
sons  was  some  respectable  and  undistinguished 
calling,  blamed  him  for  so  often  changing  his 
mind,  for  his  fits  of  enthusiasm,  his  abortive  begin- 
nings, and  all  his  ineffectual  impulses  towards  gen- 
erous ideas  and  the  liberal  professions. 

Since  he  had  grown  to  manhood  they  no  longer 
said  in  so  many  words  :  "  Look  at  Jean  and  follow 
his  example,"  but  every  time  he  heard  them  say 
"Jean  did  this — Jean  does  that,"  he  understood 
their  meaning  and  the  hint  the  words  conveyed. 

Their  mother,  an  orderly  person,  a  thrifty  and 
rather  sentimental  woman  of  the  middle  class, 
with  the  soul  of  a  soft-hearted  book-keeper,  was 

7 


Pierre  and  Jean 

constantly  (jucncliing  the  little  livaliics  between 
her  two  big  sons  to  which  the  j)eiiy  events  of 
their  life  constantly  gave  rise.  Anotiier  link-  cir- 
cumstance, too,  just  now  ilisturbed  her  j)eace  of 
mint!,  and  she  was  in  fear  of  some  complications; 
for  in  the  course  of  the  winlei-,  whiK-  her  boys 
were  linishing  tiieir  studies,  each  in  his  own  line, 
she  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  a  neighbour, 
Mme.  Rosémilly,  the  widow  of  a  captain  of  a  mer- 
chantman who  had  died  at  sea  two  years  before. 
The  young  widow — quite  young,  only  threc-and- 
twenty — a  woman  of  strong  intellect  who  knew 
life  by  instinct  as  the  free  animals  do,  as  though  she 
had  seen,  gone  through,  understood,  and  weighed 
every  conceivable  contingency,  and  judged  I  hem 
with  a  wholesome,  strict,  and  benevolent  mind, 
had  fallen  into  the  habit  of  calling  to  work  or  chat 
for  an  hour  in  the  evening  with  these  friendly 
neighbours,  who  would  give  her  a  cup  of  tea. 

Father  Roland,  always  goaded  on  by  his  sea- 
faring craze,  would  question  their  new  friend 
about  the  departed  captain  ;  and  she  would  talk  of 
him,  and  his  voyages,  and  his  old-world  tales, 
without  hesitation,  like  a  resigned  and  reasonable 
woman  who  loves  life  and  respects  death. 

The  two  sons  on  their  return,  fiiuling  the 
pretty  widow  (juite  at   home   in   llic   house,  forth- 

8 


Pierre  and  Jean 

with  hcL^an  to  court  lier,  less  from  any  wish  to 
ciiarm  lie  r  tlian  from  the  desire  to  cut  eacli  (Hher 
out. 

Their  mother,  being  practical  and  prudent,  sin- 
cerely hoi)ed  that  one  of  them  might  win  the 
young  widow,  for  she  was  rich  ;  but  then  she 
would  have  hked  that  the  other  should  not  be 
grieved. 

Mme.  Rosémilly  was  fair,  with  blue  eyes,  a 
mass  of  light  waving  hair,  fluttering  at  the  least 
breath  of  wind,  and  an  alert,  daring,  pugnacious 
little  way  with  her,  which  did  not  in  the  least 
answer  to  the  sober  method  of  her  mind. 

She  already  seemed  to  like  Jean  best,  attracted, 
no  doubt,  by  an  affinity  of  nature.  This  prefer- 
ence, however,  she  betrayed  only  by  an  almost 
imperceptible  difference  of  voice  and  look  and 
also  by  occasionally  asking  his  opinion.  She 
seemed  to  guess  that  Jean's  views  would  support 
her  own,  while  those  of  Pierre  must  inevitably  be 
different.  When  she  spoke  of  the  doctor's  ideas 
on  politics,  art,  philosophy,  or  morals,  she  would 
sometimes  say  :  "  Your  crotchets."  Then  he  would 
look  at  her  with  the  cold  gleam  of  an  accuser 
drawing  up  an  indictment  against  woman— all 
women,  poor  weak  things. 

Never  till  his  sons  came  home  had  M.  Roland 
9 


Pierre   luuI    ]eaii 

invited  hcv  io  juin  his  lisliinj^  expeditions,  nor  had 
he  ever  taken  his  wife  ;  for  he  liked  t<>  put  ofT 
before  daybreak,  with  his  all\-,  Captain  Ikausire, 
a  master  mariner  retired,  whom  he  had  fust  met 
on  the  cjuav  at  iiiiiii  tides  and  with  whom  lie  had 
struck  up  an  intimacy,  and  tlie  old  sailor  Papagris, 
known  as  Jean  Bart,  in  whose  charge  the  boat 
was  left. 

But  one  evening  of  the  week  before,  Mme. 
Rosémilly,  who  had  been  dining  with  them,  re- 
marked, "  It  must  be  great  fun  to  go  out  fishing." 
The  jeweller,  ikittercd  by  her  interest  and  sud- 
denly fired  with  the  wish  to  share  his  favourite 
sport  with  her,  and  to  make  a  convert  after  the 
manner  of  priests,  exclaimed  :  "  Would  you  like 
to  come  ?" 

"  To  be  sure  I  should." 

"Next  Tuesday?" 

"  Yes,  next  Tuesday." 

"  Are  you  the  woman  to  be  ready  to  start  at 
five  in  the  morning?" 

She  exclaimed  in  horror  : 

"  No,  indeed  :  that  is  too  much." 

He  was  disappointed  and  chilled,  suddenly 
doubting  her  true  vocation.     However,  he  said  : 

"At  what  hour  can  you  be  ready  ?" 

"Well— at  nine?" 

10 


Pierre   and  Jean 

"Not  before?" 

'*  Nt),  nol  before.      Even  that  is  very  early." 

The  old  fellow  hesitated  ;  he  eertainly  would 
catch  nothing,  for  when  the  sun  has  warmed  the 
sea  the  fish  bite  no  more  ;  but  the  two  brothers 
had  eagerly  })rcsscd  the  scheme,  and  organized 
and  arranged  everything  there  and  then. 

So  on  the  following  Tuesday  the  Pearl  had 
dropped  anchor  under  the  white  rocks  of  Cape  la 
Hévc  ;  they  had  fished  till  midday,  then  they  had 
slept  awhile,  and  then  fished  again  without  catch- 
ing anything  ;  and  then  it  was  that  father  Roland, 
perceiving,  rather  late,  that  all  that  Mme.  Rosé- 
milly  really  enjoyed  and  cared  for  was  the  sail  on 
the  sea,  and  seeing  that  his  lines  hung  motionless, 
had  uttered  in  a  spirit  of  unreasonable  annoyance, 
that  vehement  "  Tschah  !  "  which  applied  as  much 
to  the  pathetic  widow  as  to  the  creatures  he  could 
not  catch. 

Now  he  contemplated  the  spoil — his  fish — 
with  the  joyful  thrill  of  a  miser  ;  and  seeing  as 
he  looked  up  at  the  sky  that  the  sun  was  getting 
low:  "Well,  boys,"  said  he,  "suppose  we  turn 
homeward." 

The  young  men   hauled  in  their  lines,  coiled 

them  up,  cleaned  the  hooks  and  stuck  them  into 

corks,  and  sat  waiting. 

II 


Pierre   and   lean 

Roland  stood  up  to  look  out  liki-  a  captain. 

"  No  wind,"  said  he.  "  \'ou  will  have  lu  j)iill, 
yoiuiLï  'uns." 

And  suddenly  extending  one  arm  tt)  the  north- 
ward, he  exclaimed  : 

"Here  comes  the  packet  from  Southamp- 
ton." 

Away  over  the  level  sea,  spread  out  like  a  blue 
sheet,  vast  ami  sheeny  and  shot  with  llamc  and 
gokl,  an  inky  cloud  was  visible  against  the  rosy 
sky  in  the  quarter  to  which  he  pointed,  and  below 
it  they  could  make  out  the  hull  of  the  steamer, 
which  looked  tiny  at  such  a  distance.  And  to 
southward  other  wreaths  of  smoke,  numbers  of 
them,  couKl  be  seen,  all  converging  towards  the 
Havre  pier,  now  scarcely  visible  as  a  while  streak 
with  the  lighthouse,  upright,  like  a  horn,  at  the 
end  of  it. 

Roland  asked  :  "  Is  not  the  Normandie  due 
to-day  ?"     And  Jean  replied  : 

•'  Vcs,  to-day." 

"  Give  me  my  glass.  I  fancy  I  see  her  out 
there." 

The  father  pulled  out  the  copj)er  tube,  :u\- 
justcd  it  to  his  eye,  sought  the  speck,  and  then, 
delighted  to  have  seen  it,  exclaimed  : 

"Yes,  yes,  there  she  is.      I  know  her  two  fun- 

12 


Pierre  and  Jean 

ncls.      Would    you    like    lo    look,    Mme.    Kosé- 
milly  ?" 

She  took  the  telescope  and  directed  it  towards 
the  Atlantic  horizon,  without  i)eing  able,  however, 
to  find  the  vessel,  for  she  could  distinguish  noth- 
ing— nothing  hut  blue,  with  a  coloured  halo  round 
it,  a  circular  rainbow — and  tlicn  all  manner  of 
queer  things,  winking  eclipses  which  made  her 
feel  sick. 

She  said  as  she  returned  the  glass  : 

"  I  never  could  see  with  that  thing.  It  used 
to  put  my  husband  in  quite  a  rage  ;  he  would 
stand  for  hours  at  the  windows  watching  the  ships 
pass." 

Old  Roland,  much  put  out,  retorted  : 

"Then  it  must  be  some  defect  in  your  eye,  for 
my  glass  is  a  very  good  one." 

Then  he  offered  it  to  his  wife. 

"  Would  you  like  to  look  ?" 

"  No,  thank  you.  I  know  beforehand  that  I 
could  not  see  through  it." 

Mme.  Roland,  a  woman  of  eight-and-forty  but 
who  did  not  look  it,  seemed  to  be  enjoying  this 
excursion  and  this  waning  day  more  than  any  of 
the  party. 

Her  chestnut  hair  was  only  just  beginning  to 
show  streaks  of  white.     She  had  a  calm,  rcason- 

13 


Pierre   and  jean 

able  face,  a  kiiul  ami  haj)j)y  way  willi  her  whicli 
it  was  a  pleasure  to  see.  lier  son  Pierre  was 
wiMit  lo  say  that  she  knew  llie  value  of  money, 
l)iit  this  dill  not  hinder  her  from  enjoying  the  de- 
lights of  dreaming.  She  was  fond  of  reading,  of 
novels,  and  poetry,  not  for  their  value  as  works  of 
art.  luit  for  the  sake  of  the  tender  melancholy 
mood  they  would  induce  in  lier.  A  line  of  poetry, 
often  but  a  poor  one,  often  a  bad  one,  would 
touch  the  litile  chord,  as  she  expressed  it,  and 
give  her  the  sense  of  some  mysterious  desire  al- 
most realized.  And  she  delighted  in  these  faint 
emotions  which  brought  a  little  flutter  to  her  soul, 
otherwise  as  strictly  kept  as  a  ledger. 

Since  settling  at  Havre  she  had  become  per- 
ceptibly stouter,  and  her  figure,  which  had  been 
very  supple  and  slight,  had  grown  heavier. 

This  day  on  the  sea  had  been  delightful  to  her. 
Her  husband,  without  being  brutal,  was  rough 
with  her,  as  a  man  who  is  the  despot  of  his  shop 
is  apt  to  be  rough,  without  anger  or  hatred  ;  to 
such  men  to  give  an  order  is  to  swear.  lb'  con- 
trolled himself  in  the  presence  of  strangers,  but  in 
private  he  let  loose  and  gave  himself  terrible  vent, 
though  he  was  himself  afraid  of  every  one.  wShe, 
in  sheer  horror  of  the  turmoil,  of  scenes,  of  use- 
less  explanations,    always    gave   way   and    never 

14 


Pierre  and  Jean 


asked  for  anything  ;  fur  a  very  lung  lime  she  had 
not  ventured  to  ask  Roland  to  take  her  out  in  the 
boat.  So  she  had  joyfully  hailed  this  opportu- 
nity, and  was  keenly  enjoying  the  rare  and  new 
pleasure. 

From  the  moment  when  they  started  she  sur- 
rendered herself  completely,  body  and  soul,  U)  the 
soft,  gliding  motion  over  the  waves.  She  was  not 
thinking  ;  her  mind  was  not  wandering  through 
either  memories  or  hopes  ;  it  seemed  to  her  as 
though  her  heart,  like  her  body,  was  floating  on 
something  soft  and  liquid  and  delicious  which 
rocked  and  lulled  it. 

When  their  father  gave  the  word  to  return, 
*'  Come,  take  your  places  at  the  oars  !  "  she  smiled 
to  see  her  sons,  her  two  great  boys,  take  off  their 
jackets  and  roll  up  their  shirt-sleeves  on  their  bare 
arms. 

Pierre,  who  was  nearest  to  the  two  women, 
took  the  stroke  oar,  Jean  the  other,  and  they  sat 
waiting  till  the  skipper  should  say  :  "  Give  way  !  " 
For  he  insisted  on  everything  being  done  accord- 
ing to  strict  rule. 

Simultaneously,  as  if  by  a  single  effort,  they 
dipped  the  oars,  and  lying  back,  pulling  with  all 
their  might,  began  a  struggle  to  display  their 
strength.     They  had  come  out  easily,  under  sail, 

15 


Pierre   and   jean 

luit  the  hrrczc  luul  dicil  away,  and  the  iiiasciilinc 
piidc  i>f  the  iwi)  biDthcrs  was  suddcnlv  aiDiiscd 
l»y  the  prospect  of  measuiins^  their  j)()\\eis.  When 
llicy  went  out  alone  witli  their  father  they  plied 
the  oars  without  any  steering,  for  Roland  would 
be  busy  getting  the  lines  ready,  while  he  kept  a 
lookout  in  the  boat's  course,  guiding  it  by  a  sign 
or  a  word  :  "  Easy,  Jean,  and  you,  Pierre,  put 
your  back  into  it."  Or  he  would  say,  "  Now, 
then,  number  one  ;  come,  number  two — a  little 
elbow  grease."  Then  the  one  who  had  been 
dreaming  pulled  harder,  the  one  who  had  got 
excited  eased  down,  and  the  boat's  head  came 
round. 

But  to-day  they  meant  to  display  their  bi- 
ceps. Pierre's  arms  were  hairy,  somewhat  lean 
but  sinewy  ;  Jean's  were  round  and  white  and 
rosy,  and  the  knot  of  muscles  moved  under  the 
skin. 

At  first   Pierre  had  the  advantage.     \\"\[\\  his 

teeth  set,  his  brow  knit,  his  legs  rigid,  his  hands 

clinched  on  the  oar,  he  made  it  bentl  from  end  to 

end  at   ev^ery  stroke,  and   the    Pearl   was  veering 

landward.     Father  Roland,  sitting  in  the  bows,  so 

as  to  leave   the    stern    seat    to    the   two  women, 

wasted   his  breath   shoutincT,  "  Rasv,  number  one  ; 

pull    harder,  number  two!"      Pierre  pulled    harder 

i6 


Pierre  and  Jean 

in  his  frenzy,  and  "  nunihcr  two"  could  not  keep 
time  with  his  wild  stroke. 

At  last  the  skipper  cried  :  "Stop  her!"  The 
two  oars  were  lifted  simultaneously,  and  liicn  by 
his  father's  orders  Jean  pulled  alone  for  a  few 
minutes.  But  from  that  moment  he  had  it  all 
his  own  way  ;  he  grew  eager  and  warmed  to  his 
work,  wliile  Pierre,  out  of  breath  and  exhausted 
by  his  first  vigorous  spurt,  was  lax  and  panting. 
Four  times  running  father  Roland  made  them 
stop  while  the  elder  took  breath,  so  as  to  get  the 
boat  into  her  right  course  again.  Then  the  doc- 
tor, humiliated  and  fuming,  his  forehead  dropping 
with  sweat,  his  cheeks  white,  stammered  out  : 

"  I  cannot  think  what  has  com.e  over  me  ;  I 
have  a  stitch  in  my  side.  I  started  very  well,  but 
it  has  pulled  me  up." 

Jean  asked  :  "  Shall  I  pull  alone  with  both 
oars  for  a  time  ?  " 

"  No,  thanks,  it  will  go  ofT." 

And  their  mother,  somewhat  vexed,  said  : 

"  Why,  Pierre,  what  rhyme  or  reason  is  there 
in  getting  into  such  a  state.    You  are  not  a  child." 

And  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  set  to  once 
more. 

Mme.  Rosémilly  pretended  not  to  sec,  not  to 

understand,  not  to  hear.     Her  fair  head  went  back 
a  17 


Pierre  and  Jean 

with  an  engaging  little  jerk  every  time  the  buat 
moved  forward,  making  the  fmc  wayward  hairs 
llutter  about  her  temples. 

But  father  Roland  presently  called  out  : 
"  Look,  the  Prince  Albert  is  catching  us  uj)  !  " 
They  all  looked  round.  Long  and  low  in  the 
water,  with  her  two  raking  funnels  and  two  yellow 
paddle-boxes  like  two  round  cheeks,  the  South- 
ampton packet  came  ploughing  on  at  full  steam, 
crowded  with  passengers  under  open  parasols.  Its 
hurrying,  noisy  paddle-wheels  beating  up  the  water, 
which  fell  again  in  foam,  gave  it  an  appearance  of 
haste  as  of  a  courier  pressed  for  time,  and  the  up- 
right stem  cut  through  the  water,  throwing  up  two 
thin  translucent  waves  which  glided  off  along  the 
hull. 

When  it  had  come  quite  near  the  Pearl,  father 
Roland  lifted  his  hat,  the  ladies  shook  their  hand- 
kerchiefs, and  half  a  dozen  parasols  eagerly  waved 
on  board  the  steamboat  responded  to  this  salute  as 
she  went  on  her  way,  leaving  behind  her  a  few 
broad  undulations  on  the  still  and  glassy  surface  of 
the  sea. 

There  were  other  vessels,  each  wiiii  its  smoky 
cap,  coming  in  from  every  part  of  the  horizon 
towards  the  short  white  jetty,  which  swallowed 
them  up,  one  after  another,  like  a  mouth.     And 


Pierre  and  Jean 

the  fishing  barks  and  lighter  craft  with  broad  sails 
and  slender  masts,  stealing  across  the  sky  in  tow 
of  inconspicuous  tugs,  were  coming  in,  faster  and 
slower,  towards  the  devouring  ogre,  who  from  time 
to  time  seemed  to  have  had  a  surfeit,  and  spewed 
out  to  the  open  sea  another  fleet  of  steamers, 
brigs,  schooners,  and  three-masted  vessels  with 
their  tangled  mass  of  rigging.  The  hurrying  steam- 
ships flew  off  to  the  right  and  left  over  the  smooth 
bosom  of  the  ocean,  while  sailing  vessels,  cast  off 
by  the  pilot-tugs  which  had  hauled  them  out,  lay 
motionless,  dressing  themselves  from  the  main- 
mast to  the  fore-tops  in  canvas,  white  or  brown, 
and  ruddy  in  the  setting  sun. 

Mme.  Roland,  with  her  eyes  half-shut,  mur- 
mured :  "  Good  heavens,  how  beautiful  the  sea  is!  " 

And  Mme.  Rosémilly  replied  with  a  long  sigh, 
which,  however,  had  no  sadness  in  it  : 

"  Yes,  but  it  is  sometimes  very  cruel,  all  the 
same." 

Roland  exclaimed  : 

"  Look,  there  is  the  Normandie  just  going  in. 
A  big  ship,  isn't  she  ?  " 

Then  he  described  the  coast  opposite,  far,  far 
away,  on  the  other  side  of  the  mouth  of  the  Seine 
— that  mouth  extended  over  twenty  kilometres, 
said  he.     He   pointed    out    Villcrville,  Trouville. 

19 


Pierre  and  Jean 


lloulgate,  Luc,  Arromanchcs,  the  little  river  of 
Caen,  and  the  rocks  of  Calvados  which  make  tiie 
coast  unsafe  as  far  as  Chcrbour<;.  Then  lie  en- 
larged on  the  (lucstion  of  the  sand-banks  in  the 
Seine,  which  shift  at  every  tide  so  that  even  the 
pilots  of  Ouillebœuf  are  at  fault  if  they  do  not 
survey  the  channel  every  day.  He  bid  them  notice 
how  the  town  of  Havre  divided  Upper  from 
Lower  Normandy.  I  n  Lower  Normandy  the  shore 
sloped  down  to  the  sea  in  pasture-lands,  fields,  and 
meadows.  The  coast  of  Upper  Normandy,  on 
the  contrary,  was  steep,  a  high  cliiT,  ravined,  cleft 
and  towering,  forming  an  immense  white  rampart 
all  the  way  to  Dunkirk,  while  in  each  hollow  a 
village  or  a  port  lay  hidden  :  Etrctat,  Fecamp, 
Saint-Valery,  Tréport,  Dieppe,  and  the  rest. 

The  two  women  did  not  listen.  Torpid  with 
comfort  and  impressed  by  the  sight  of  the  ocean 
covered  with  vessels  rushing  to  and  fro  like  wild 
beasts  about  their  den,  they  sat  speechless,  some- 
what awed  by  the  soothing  and  gorgeous  sunset. 
Roland  alone  talked  on  without  end  ;  he  was  one  of 
those  whom  nothing  can  disturb.  Women,  whose 
nerves  are  more  sensitive,  sometimes  feel,  without 
knowing  why,  that  the  sound  of  useless  speech  is 
as  irritating  as  an  insult. 

Pierre  and  Jean,  who  had  calmed  down,  were 
20 


Pierre  and  Jean 

rowing  slowly,  and  the  Pearl  was  making  for  the 
hai  i)our,  a  tiny  thing  among  those  huge  vessels. 

When  they  came  alongside  of  the  quay,  Papa- 
gris,  who  was  waiting  there,  gave  his  hand  to  the 
ladies  to  help  them  out,  and  they  took  the  way 
into  the  town.  A  large  crowd — the  crowd  which 
haunts  the  pier  every  day  at  high  tide — was  also 
drifting  homeward.  Mme.  Roland  and  Mme. 
Rosémilly  led  the  way,  followed  by  the  three  men. 
As  they  went  up  the  Rue  dc  Paris  they  stopped 
now  and  then  in  front  of  a  milliner's  or  a  jewel- 
ler's shop,  to  look  at  a  bonnet  or  an  ornament  ; 
then  after  making  their  comments  they  went  on 
again.  In  front  of  the  Place  dc  la  Bourse  Roland 
paused,  as  he  did  every  day,  to  gaze  at  the  docks 
full  of  vessels — the  Bassni  dit  CojJimcrcc,  with 
other  docks  beyond,  where  the  huge  hulls  lay 
side  by  side,  closely  packed  in  rows,  four  or  five 
deep.  And  masts  innumerable  ;  along  several 
kilometres  of  quays  the  endless  masts,  with  their 
yards,  poles,  and  rigging,  gave  this  great  gap  in 
the  heart  of  the  town  the  look  of  a  dead  forest. 
Above  this  leafless  forest  the  gulls  were  wheeling, 
and  watching  to  pounce,  like  a  falling  stone,  on 
any  scraps  flung  overboard  ;  a  sailor  boy,  fixing  a 
pulley  to  a  cross-beam,  looked  as  if  he  had  gone 
up  there  bird's-nesting. 


21 


Pierre   and  Jean 

"Will  you  dine  with  us  witliout  any  sort  of 
ccrcniuny,  jusl  that  \vc  may  end  the  day  together  ?" 
said  Mme.  Roland  to  her  friend. 

"To  he  sure  I  will,  wiih  pleasure;  I  accept 
equally  without  ceremony.  It  would  he  dismal 
to  go  home  and  he  alone  this  evening." 

Pierre,  who  had  heard,  and  who  was  heginning 
to  he  restless  under  the  young  woman's  indiffer- 
ence, muttered  to  himself  :  "  Well,  the  widow  is 
taking  root  now,  it  would  seem."  For  some  days 
past  he  had  spoken  of  her  as  "  the  widow."  The 
word,  harmless  in  itself,  irritated  Jean  merely  by 
the  tone  given  to  it,  which  to  him  seemed  spiteful 
and  ofTensive. 

The  three  men  spoke  not  another  word  till 
they  reached  the  threshold  of  their  own  house. 
It  was  a  narrow  one,  consisting  of  a  ground-floor 
and  two  floors  above,  in  the  Rue  Belle-Normande. 
The  maid,  Joséphine,  a  girl  of  nineteen,  a  rustic 
servant-of-all-work  at  low  wages,  gifted  to  excess 
with  the  startled,  animal  expression  of  a  peasant, 
opened  the  door,  went  up  stairs  at  her  master's 
heels  to  the  drawing-room,  which  was  on  the  lust 
floor,  and  then  said  : 

"A  gentleman  called — three  times." 

Old  Roland,  who  never  spoke  to  her  without 
shouting  and  swearing,  cried  out  : 

22 


Pierre  and  Jean 

"  Who    do    you    say    called,    in    the    devil's 
name  ?  " 

She  never  winced  al  her  master's  roaring  voice, 
and  replied  : 

"  A  gentleman  from  the  lawyer's." 

"What  lawyer?" 

"Why,  M'sieu  'Canu — who  else?" 

*'  And  what  did  this  gentleman  say  ?" 

"That  M'sieu  'Canu  will  call  in  himself  in  the 
course  of  the  evening." 

Maître  Lecanu  was  M.  Roland's  lawyer,  and 
in  a  way  his  friend,  managing  his  business  for  him. 
For  him  to  send  word  that  he  would  call  in  the 
evening,  something  urgent  and  important  must  be 
in  the  wind  ;  and  the  four  Rolands  looked  at  each 
other,  disturbed  by  the  announcement  as  folks  of 
small  fortune  are  wont  to  be  at  any  intervention 
of  a  lawyer,  with  its  suggestions  of  contracts,  in- 
heritance, lawsuits — all  sorts  of  desirable  or  for- 
midable contingencies.  The  father,  after  a  few 
moments  of  silence,  muttered  : 

"What  on  earth  can  it  mean?" 

Mme.  Rosémilly  began  to  laugh. 

"  Why,  a  legacy,  of  course.     I  am  sure  of  it. 
I  bring  good  luck." 

But  they  did  not  expect  the  death  of  any  one 
who  might  leave  them  anything. 

23 


Pierre   aiui  ]can 

IMiiK".  Roland,  who  luid  a  L;uc)d  mcmorv  for 
relationships,  began  to  think  over  all  their  connec- 
tions on  her  husband's  side  and  on  her  own,  to 
trace  up  ])edigrecs  and  the  ramifications  of  c^nisin- 
siiip. 

Before  even  taking  off  her  bonnet  she  said  : 

"I  say,  father"  (she  called  her  husband 
"Father"  at  home,  ami  sometimes  "Monsieur 
Roland"  before  strangers),  "tell  me,  do  you  re- 
member who  it  was  that  Joseph  Lebru  married 
for  the  second  time  ?  " 

"  Yes — a  little  girl  named  Dumenil,  a  sta- 
tioner's daughter." 

"  Had  they  any  children  ?" 

"  I  should  think  so  !  four  or  five  at  least." 

"  Not  from  that  quarter,  then." 

She  was  quite  eager  already  in  her  search  ;  she 
caught  at  the  hope  of  some  added  case  dropping 
from  the  sky.  But  Pierre,  who  was  very  fond  of 
his  mother,  who  knew  her  to  be  somewhat  vision- 
ary and  feared  she  might  be  disappointed,  a  little 
grieved,  a  little  saddened  if  the  news  were  bad 
instead  of  g(3od,  checked  her  : 

"  Do  not  get  excited,  mother  ;  there  is  no  rich 
American  uncle.  For  my  part,  I  should  sooner 
fancy  that  it  is  about  a  marriage  for  Jean." 

Every  one  was  surprised  at  the  suggestion,  and 


Pierre   and   ]ean 

Jean  was  a  little  runicd  by  his  brotlK-r's  having 
spoken  of  it  before  Mme.  Rosémilly. 

"  v\nd  why  for  nie  rather  than  for  you  ?  The 
hypothesis  is  very  disputable.  You  arc  the  elder  ; 
you,  therefore,  would  be  the  first  to  be  thought 
of.     Besides,  I  do  not  wish  to  marry." 

Pierre  smiled  snccringly  : 

"Arc  you  in  love,  then  ?" 

And  the  other,  much  put  out,  retorted  :  "  Is  it 
necessary  tliat  a  man  should  be  in  love  because  he 
docs  not  care  to  marry  yet  ?" 

"Ah,  there  you  arc  !  That  'yet'  sets  it  right  ; 
you  are  waiting." 

"Granted  that  I  am  waiting,  if  you  will  have 
it  so." 

But  old  Roland,  who  had  been  listening  and 
cogitating,  suddenly  hit  upon  the  most  probable 
solution. 

"  Bless  me  !  what  fools  we  are  to  be  racking 
our  brains.  Maître  Lecanu  is  our  very  good 
friend  ;  he  knows  that  Pierre  is  looking  out  for 
a  medical  partnership  and  Jean  for  a  lawyer's 
office,  and  he  has  found  something  to  suit  one 
of  you." 

This  was  so  obvious  and  likely  that  every  one 
accepted  it. 

"  Dinner  is  ready,"  said  the  maid.  And  they 
25 


Pierre   and    |eaii 

all  hurried  off  to  their  rooms  to  wasli  their  hands 
before  sitting  down  to  table. 

Ten  minutes  later  they  were  at  dinner  in  the 
little  dining-room  on  the  ground-t1oor. 

At  first  they  were  silent  ;  but  presently  Ro- 
land began  again  in  amazement  at  this  lawyer's 
visit. 

"  For  after  all,  why  did  he  not  write  ?  Why 
should  he  have  sent  his  clerk  three  times  ?  Why 
is  he  coming  himself?" 

Pierre  thought  it  quite  natural. 

"  An  immediate  decision  is  required,  no  doubt  ; 
and  perhaps  there  are  certain  confidential  condi- 
tions which  it  docs  not  do  to  put  into  writing." 

Still,  they  were  all  puzzled,  and  all  four  a  little 
annoyed  at  having  invited  a  stranger,  who  would 
be  in  the  way  of  their  discussing  and  deciding  on 
what  should  be  done. 

They  had  just  gone  upstairs  again  when  the 
lawyer  was  announced.     Roland  flew  to  meet  him. 

"Good-evening,  my  dear  Maître,"  said  he,  giv- 
ing his  visitor  the  title  which  in  France  is  the 
ofïicial  prefix  to  the  name  of  every  lawyer. 

Mme.  Rosémilly  rose. 

"  I  am  going,"  she  said.      "  I  am  verv  tired." 

A  faint  attempt  was  made  to  detain  lui  ;  but 

she  would  not  consent,  and  went  home  without 

26 


Pierre  and  Jean 


cither  of  the  three  men  offering  to  escort  her, 
as  they  always  had  done. 

Mme.  Roland  did  the  honours  eagerly  to  their 
visitor. 

"A  cup  of  coffee,  monsieur?" 

"No,  thank  you.     I  have  just  had  dinner." 

"A  cup  of  tea,  then  ?" 

"Thank  you,  I  will  accept  one  later.  First 
we  must  attend  to  business." 

The  deep  silence  which  succeeded  this  remark 
was  broken  only  by  the  regular  ticking  of  the 
clock,  and  below  stairs  the  clatter  of  saucepans 
which  the  girl  was  cleaning — too  stupid  even  to 
listen  at  the  door. 

The  lawyer  went  on  : 

"  Did  you,  in  Paris,  know  a  certain  M.  Maré- 
chal—Léon Maréchal  ?" 

M.  and  Mme.  Roland  both  exclaimed  at  once  : 
"  I  should  think  so  !  " 

"  He  was  a  friend  of  yours  ?" 

Roland  replied  :  "  Our  best  friend,  monsieur, 
but  a  fanatic  for  Paris  ;  never  to  be  got  away  from 
the  boulevard.  He  was  a  head  clerk  in  the  ex- 
chequer office.  I  have  never  seen  him  since  I  left 
the  capital,  and  latterly  we  had  ceased  writing  to 
each    other.      When    people    are    far    apart,    you 

know " 

27 


Pierre   and    ]ean 

The  lawytT  gravely  put  in  : 

"  M.  Maicelial  is  deceased." 

Both  man  and  wife  responded  with  the  ht  tie 
movement  of  pained  surprise,  genuine  or  false,  bul 
always  ready,  with  which  such  news  is  received. 

Maître  Lecanu  went  on  : 

"  My  colleague  in  Paris  has  just  communicated 
to  me  the  main  item  of  liis  will,  hy  whicii  he 
makes  your  son  Jean — Monsieur  Jean  Roland — 
his  sole  legatee." 

They  were  all  too  much  amazed  to  utter  a 
single  word.  Mme.  Roland  was  the  first  to  con- 
trol her  emotion  and  stammered  out  : 

"  Good  heavens  !  Poor  Léon — our  poor  friend  ! 
Dear  me  !     Dear  me  !     Dead  !  " 

The  tears  started  to  her  eyes,  a  woman's  silent 
tears,  drops  of  grief  from  her  very  soul,  which 
trickle  down  her  cheeks  and  seem  so  very  sad, 
being  so  clear.  But  Roland  was  thinking  less  of 
the  loss  than  of  the  prospect  announced.  Still,  he 
dared  not  at  once  inquire  into  the  clauses  of  the 
will  and  the  amount  of  the  fortune,  so  to  work 
round  to  these  interesting  facts  he  asked  : 

"And  what  did  he  die  of,  pooi  Maréchal  ?" 

Maître  Lecanu  did  not  know  in  tiie  least. 

"All  I  know  is,"  said  he,  "that  dying  without 

any  direct  heirs,  he  has  left  the  whole  of  his  fortune 

28 


Pierre  and  Jean 

— about  twenty  thousand  francs  a  year  ($3,840) 
in  lime  per  cents — to  your  second  son,  wIkjui 
he  lias  known  from  liis  l)irtii  uj),  and  judges 
worthy  of  tiie  legacy.  If  M.  Jean  should  re- 
fuse the  money,  it  is  to  go  to  the  foundling  hos- 
pitals." 

Old  Roland  could  not  conceal  his  delight  and 
exclaimed  : 

"  Sacristi  !  It  is  the  thought  of  a  kind  heart. 
And  if  I  had  had  no  heir  I  would  not  have  fortrot- 
ten  him  ;  he  was  a  true  friend." 

The  lawyer  smiled. 

"  I  was  very  glad,"  he  said,  "to  announce  the 
event  to  you  myself.  It  is  always  a  pleasure  to 
be  the  bearer  of  good  news." 

It  had  not  struck  him  that  this  good  news  was 
tliat  of  the  death  of  a  friend,  of  Roland's  best 
friend  ;  and  the  old  man  himself  had  suddenly  for- 
gotten the  intimacy  he  had  but  just  spoken  of 
with  so  much  conviction. 

Only  Mme.  Roland  and  her  sons  still  looked 
mournful.  She,  indeed,  was  still  shedding  a  few 
tears,  wiping  her  eyes  with  her  handkerchief,  which 
she  then  pressed  to  her  lips  to  smother  her  deep 
sobs. 

The  doctor  murmured  : 

"  He  was  a  good  fellow,  very  affectionate.    He 
29 


Pierre   ami   jean 

often    invited   ns   to  dine  with  him — my  brother 
antl  me." 

Jean,  with  wide-open,  glittering  eyes,  hiid  liis 
hand  on  liis  handsome  fair  beard,  a  famihar  ges- 
ture witli  him,  and  drew  his  fingers  down  it  to  tlie 
tip  of  the  last  hairs,  as  if  to  pull  it  longer  and 
thinner.  Twiee  iiis  lii)s  parted  to  utter  some  de- 
cent remark,  but  after  long  meditation  he  could 
only  say  this  : 

"  Ves,  he  was  certainly  fond  of  me.  He 
would  always  embrace  me  when  I  went  to  see 
him." 

But  his  father's  thoughts  had  set  ofT  at  a  gal- 
lop— galloping  round  this  inheritance  to  come  ; 
nay,  already  in  hand  ;  this  money  lurking  behind 
the  door,  which  would  walk  in  quite  soon,  to-mor- 
row, at  a  word  of  consent. 

"And  there  is  no  possible  difficulty  in  the 
way?"  he  asked.  "No  lawsuit — no  one  to  dis- 
pute it  ?" 

Maitre  Lecanu  seemed  quite  easy. 

"  No  ;  my  Paris  correspondent  states  that 
everything  is  quite  clear.  M.  Jean  has  only  to 
sign  his  acceptance." 

"Good.  Then  —  tiien  the  fortune  is  cjuite 
clear?" 

"  Perfectly  clear." 

30 


Pierre   and    Jean 

"All  the  necessary  furinalitics  have  been  gone 
thi()U<;li  ?" 

"All." 

Suddenly  the  old  jeweller  had  an  impulse  of 
shame — obscure,  instinctive,  and  fleeting  ;  shame 
of  his  eagerness  to  be  informed,  and  he  added  : 

"  You  understand  that  I  ask  all  these  ques- 
tions immediately  so  as  to  save  my  son  unpleasant 
consequences  which  he  might  not  foresee.  Some- 
times there  are  debts,  embarrassing  liabilities, 
what  not  !  And  a  legatee  finds  himself  in  an  in- 
extricable thorn-bush.  After  all,  I  am  not  the 
heir — but  I  think  first  of  the  little  'un." 

They  were  accustomed  to  speak  of  Jean  among 
themselves  as  the  "little  one,"  though  he  was 
much  bigger  than  Pierre. 

Suddenly  Mme.  Roland  seemed  to  wake  from 
a  dream,  to  recall  some  remote  fact,  a  thing  al- 
most forgotten  that  she  had  heard  long  ago,  and 
of  which  she  was  not  altogether  sure.  She  in- 
quired doubtingly  : 

"  Were  you  not  saying  that  our  poor  friend 
Maréchal  had  left  his  fortune  to  my  little  Jean  ?" 

"  Yes,  madame." 

And  she  went  on  simply  : 

"  I  am  much  pleased  to  hear  it  ;  it  proves  that 
he  was  attached  to  us." 

31 


Pierre   and   jean 

Roland  luul  risen. 

"And  woLiKl  you  wish,  my  tlcar  sir,  that  my 
son  slioiild  at  once  sign  his  acceptance  ?" 

"  No — no,  M.  Roland.  To-morrow,  at  my 
office  to-morrow,  at  two  o'clock,  if  that  suits  vou." 

"  Vcs,  to  be  sure  —  yes,  indeed.  I  should 
think  so." 

Then  Mme.  Roland,  who  had  also  risen  and 
wiio  was  smiling  after  her  tears,  went  up  to  the 
lawyer,  and  laying  her  hand  on  the  l)aek  of  his 
chair  while  she  looked  at  him  with  the  pathetic 
eyes  of  a  grateful  mother,  she  said  : 

"And  now  for  that  cup  of  tea,  Monsieur  Le- 
canu  ?  " 

"  Now  I  will  accept  it  with  pleasure,  madame." 

The  maid,  on  being  summoned,  brought  in 
first  some  dry  biscuits  in  deep  tin  boxes,  those 
crisp,  insipid  English  cakes  which  seem  to  have 
been  made  for  a  parrot's  beak,  ami  soldered  into 
metal  cases  for  a  voyage  round  the  world.  Next 
she  fetched  some  little  gray  linen  doilies,  folded 
square,  those  tea-napkins  which  in  thrifty  families 
never  get  washed.  A  third  time  she  came  in  with 
the  sugar-basin  and  cups  ;  then  she  departed  to 
heat  the  water.     They  sat  waiting. 

No  one  could  talk  ;  they  had  too  much  to 
think  about  and  nothing  to  say.     Mme.  Roland 

'32 


Pierre  and  Jean 


alone  attempted  a  few  eommonplacc  remarks. 
She  gave  an  account  of  tlic  fishin^^  excursion,  and 
sang  the  praises  of  tiic  Pearl  and  of  Mnic.  Rosé- 
milly. 

"  Charming  !  charming  !  "  the  lawyer  said  again 
and  again. 

Roland,  leaning  against  the  marble  mantel- 
shelf as  if  it  were  winter  and  the  fire  burning,  with 
his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  his  lips  puckered  for 
a  whistle,  could  not  keep  still,  tortured  by  the  in- 
vincible desire  to  give  vent  to  his  delight.  The 
two  brothers,  in  two  arm-chairs  that  matched,  one 
on  each  side  of  the  centre-table,  stared  in  front  of 
them,  in  similar  attitudes  full  of  dissimilar  expres- 
sion. 

At  last  the  tea  appeared.  The  lawyer  took  a 
cup,  sugared  it,  and  drank  it,  after  having  crum- 
bled into  it  a  little  cake  which  was  too  hard  to 
crunch.  Then  he  rose,  shook  hands,  and  de- 
parted. 

"  Then  it  is  understood,"  repeated  Roland. 
"To-morrow,  at  your  place,  at  two  ?" 

"  Quite  so.     To-morrow,  at  two." 

Jean  had  not  spoken  a  word. 

When  their  guest  had  gone,  silence  fell  again 
till  father  Roland  clapped  his  two  hands  on  his 
younger  son's  shoulders,  crying  : 

3  ''  "> 


Pierre   and   jean 

"  Well,  you  dcvilisli  lucky  tK)^::  !  You  don't  cin- 
bracc  nic  !  " 

Tiicn  Jean  sniiU'd.  lie  embraced  his  father, 
sayinL!,-  : 

"  It  had  not  struck  mc  as  indisjjensahle." 

The  old  man  was  beside  himself  with  glee. 
He  walked  about  the  room,  strummed  on  the 
furniture  with  his  clumsy  nails,  turned  about  on 
his  heels,  and  kejn  saying  : 

"What  luck  1  what  luck  !  Now,  that  is  really 
what  I  call  luck  !" 

Pierre  asked  : 

"  Then  you  used  to  know  this  Maréchal  well  ?" 

And  his  father  replied  : 

"  I  believe  you  !  Why,  he  used  to  spend  every 
evening  at  our  house.  Surely  you  remember  he 
used  to  fetch  you  from  school  on  half-holidays, 
and  often  took  you  back  again  after  tliniier.  Why, 
the  very  day  when  Jean  was  born  it  was  he  who 
went  for  the  doctor.  He  had  been  breakfasting 
with  us  when  your  mother  was  taken  ill.  Of 
course  we  knew  at  once  what  it  meant,  and  he  set 
ofT  post-haste.  In  his  hurry  he  took  my  hat  in- 
stead of  his  own.  I  remember  that  because  we 
had  a  good  laugh  over  it  afterward.  It  is  very 
likely  that  he  may  have  thought  of  that  when  he 
was  dying,  and  as  he  had  no  heir  he  may  have  said 

34 


Pierre   and  Jean 

to  himself:  'I  remember  liilpiii,!^^  to  brin^^  lliat 
youngster  into  the  world,  so  1  will  leave  him  my 
savings.'  " 

Mme.  Roland,  sunk  in  a  deep  chair,  seemed 
lost  in  reminiscences  once  more.  She  murmured, 
as  though  she  were  thinking  aloud  : 

"  Ah,  lie  was  a  good  friend,  very  devoted,  very 
faithful,  a  rare  soul  in  these  days." 

Jean  got  up. 

"  I  shall  go  out  for  a  little  walk,"  he  said. 

His  father  was  surprised  and  tried  to  keep 
him  ;  they  had  much  to  talk  about,  plans  to  be 
made,  decisions  to  be  formed.  But  the  young 
man  insisted,  declaring  that  he  had  an  engage- 
ment. Besides,  there  would  be  time  enough  for 
settling  everything  before  he  came  into  possession 
of  his  inheritance.  So  he  went  away,  for  he  wished 
to  be  alone  to  reflect.  Pierre,  on  his  part,  said 
that  he  too  was  going  out,  and  after  a  few  minutes 
followed  his  brother. 

As  soon  as  he  was  alone  with  his  wife,  father 
Roland  took  her  in  his  arms,  kissed  her  a  dozen 
times  on  each  cheek,  and,  replying  to  a  reproach 
she  had  often  brought  against  him,  said  : 

"  You  see,  my  dearest,  that  it  would  have  been 
of  no  good  to  stay  any  longer  in  Paris  and  work 
for  the  children  till  I  dropped,  instead  of  coming 

35 


Pierre   and   |c:in 

here  to  recruit  niv  licaltli,  since  fortune  drops  on 
us  from  the  skies." 

Slie  was  quite  serious. 

"  It  drops  from  the  skies  on  Jean,"  she  said. 
"But  Pierre?" 

"  Pierre  ?  But  he  is  a  doctor  ;  lie  will  make 
plenty  of  money  ;  besides,  his  brother  will  surely 
do  something  for  him." 

"  No,  he  would  not  take  it.  Besides,  this  leg- 
acy is  for  Jean,  only  for  Jean.  Pierre  will  find 
himself  at  a  great  disadvantage." 

The  old  fellow  seemed  perplexed:  "Well, 
then,  we  will  leave  him  rather  more  in  our  will." 

"  No  ;  that  again  would  not  be  cjuite  just." 

"  Drat  it  all  !"  he  exclaimed.  "  \Vhat  do  you 
want  me  to  do  in  the  matter?  Vou  always  hit  on 
a  whole  heap  of  disagreeable  ideas.  You  must 
spoil  all  my  pleasures.  Well,  I  am  going  to  bed. 
Good-night.  All  the  same,  I  call  it  good  luck, 
jolly  good  luck  !  " 

And  he  went  ofi",  delighted  in  spite  of  every- 
thing, and  without  a  word  of  regret  for  the  friend 
so  generous  in  his  death. 

Mme.  Roland  sat  thinking  again,  in  front 
of  the  lamp  which  was  burning  out. 


36 


CHAPTER  II 

As  soon  as  he  got  out,  Pierre  made  his  way  to 
the  Rue  de  Paris,  the  high-street  of  Havre,  brigluly 
lighted  up,  lively  and  noisy.  The  rather  sharp  air 
of  the  scacoast  kissed  his  face,  and  he  walked 
slowly,  his  stick  under  his  arm  and  his  hands  behind 
his  back.  He  was  ill  at  ease,  oppressed,  out  of 
heart,  as  one  is  after  hearing  unpleasant  tidings. 
He  was  not  distressed  by  any  definite  thought, 
and  he  would  have  been  puzzled  to  account,  on 
the  spur  of  the  moment,  for  this  dejection  of  spirit 
and  heaviness  of  limb.  Pic  was  hurt  somewhere, 
without  knowing  where  ;  somewhere  within  him 
there  was  a  pin-point  of  pain — one  of  those  almost 
imperceptible  wounds  which  we  cannot  lay  a  finger 
on,  but  which  incommode  us,  tire  us,  depress  us, 
irritate  us — a  slight  and  occult  pang,  as  it  were 
a  small  seed  of  distress. 

When  he  reached  the  square  in  front  of  the 
theatre,  he  was  attracted  by  the  lights  in  the  Café 
Tortoni,  and  slowly  bent  his  steps  to  the  dazzling 
façade  ;  but  just  as  he  was  going  in  he  reflected 

37 


Pierre  and  jean 

that  he  would  meet  friends  there  and  aequaint- 
anccs— people  he  would  be  obliged  to  talk  to  ;  and 
fierce  repugnance  surged  up  in  him  for  this  com- 
monplace good-fellowship  over  cofTee  cuj)S  and 
liqueur  glasses.  So,  retracing  his  steps,  he  went 
back  to  the  high-street  leading  to  the  liarhour. 

"Where  shall  I  go?"  he  askrd  himself,  trying 
to  think  of  a  spot  he  liked  which  would  agree 
with  his  frame  of  minil.  He  could  not  think 
of  one,  for  being  alone  made  him  feel  fractious, 
yet  he  could  not  bear  to  meet  any  one.  As  he 
came  out  on  the  Grand  Quay  he  hesitated  once 
more  ;  then  he  turned  towards  the  pier  ;  he  had 
chosen  solitude. 

Going  close  by  a  bench  on  the  breakwater  he 
sat  down,  tired  already  of  walking  and  out  of 
humour  with  his  stroll  before  he  had  taken  it. 

He  said  to  himself  :  "  What  is  the  matter  with 
me  this  evening?"  And  he  began  to  search  in  his 
memory  for  what  vexation  had  crossed  him,  as  we 
question  a  sick  man  to  discover  the  cause  of  his 
fever. 

His  mind  was  at  once  irritable  and  sober;  he 
got  excited,  then  he  reasoned,  approving  or  blam- 
ing his  impulses  ;  but  in  time  primitive  nature  at 
last  proved  the  stronger  ;  the  sensitive  man  always 
had  the  upper  hand  over  the  intellectual  man.    So 

38 


Pierre  and  Jean 

he  tried  to  discover  what  had  induced  this  irascible 
mood,  tiiis  craving  to  be  moving  wiliitjul  wanting 
anything,  this  desire  to  meet  some  one  ior  the 
sake  of  dilTcring  from  him,  and  at  the  same  time 
this  aversion  for  the  j)eoj)Ie  lie  might  see  and  the 
things  they  might  say  to  him. 

And  then  he  put  the  (question  to  himself,  "  Can 
it  be  Jean's  inheritance  ?  " 

Yes,  it  was  certainly  possible.  When  the  lawyer 
had  announced  the  news  he  had  felt  his  heart  beat 
a  little  faster.  For,  indeed,  one  is  not  always 
master  of  one's  self  ;  there  are  sudden  and  pertina- 
cious emotions  against  which  a  man  struggles  in 
vain. 

He  fell  into  meditation  on  the  physiological 
problem  of  the  impression  produced  on  the  in- 
stinctive element  in  man,  and  giving  rise  to  a  cur- 
rent of  painful  or  pleasurable  sensations  diametri- 
cally opposed  to  those  which  the  thinking  man  de- 
sires, aims  at,  and  regards  as  right  and  wholesome, 
when  he  has  risen  superior  to  himself  by  the  culti- 
vation of  his  intellect.  He  tried  to  picture  to  him- 
self the  frame  of  mind  of  a  son  who  has  inherited 
a  vast  fortune,  and  who,  thanks  to  that  wealth, 
may  now  know  many  long-wished-for  delights 
which  the  avarice  of  his  father  had  prohibited— a 
father,  nevertheless,  beloved  and  regretted. 

39 


Pierre  and  Jean 

He  got  up  and  walked  on  to  tlic  end  of  the 
pier,  lie  felt  better,  and  glad  to  have  understood, 
to  have  detected  iiiniself,  to  have  unmasked  //te 
other  which  lurks  in  us. 

"Then  I  was  jealous  of  Jean,"  thought  he. 
"That  is  really  vilely  mean.  .And  I  am  sure  of  it 
now,  for  the  fust  idea  which  came  into  my  head 
was  that  he  would  marry  Mme.  Rosémilly.  And 
yet  I  am  not  in  love  myself  with  that  priggish 
little  goose,  who  is  just  the  woman  to  disgust  a 
man  with  good  sense  and  good  conduct.  So  it  is 
the  most  gratuitous  jealousy,  the  very  essence  of 
jealousy,  which  is  merely  because  it  is  !  I  must 
keep  an  eye  on  that  !" 

By  this  time  he  was  in  front  of  the  flag-staff, 
whence  the  depth  of  water  in  the  harbour  is  sig- 
nalled, and  he  struck  a  match  to  read  fhe  list  of 
vessels  signalled  in  the  roadstead  and  coming  in 
with  the  next  high  tide.  Ships  were  due  from 
Brazil,  from  La  Plata,  from  Chili  and  Japan,  two 
Danish  brigs,  a  Norwegian  schooner,  and  a  Turk- 
ish steamship — which  startled  Pierre  as  much  as  if 
it  had  read  a  Swiss  steamship  ;  and  in  a  whimsical 
vision  he  pictured  a  great  vessel  crowded  with  men 
in  turbans  climbing  the  shrouds  in  loose  trousers. 

"  How  absurd  !  "  thought  he.  "  But  the  Turks 
arc  a  maritime  people,  too." 

40 


Pierre  and  Jean 

A  few  steps  further  on  he  slopped  again,  look- 
ing out  at  the  roads.  On  tlie  right,  above  Sainte- 
Adresse,  the  two  electric  lights  of  Cape  la  llèvc, 
like  monstrous  twin  Cyclops,  shot  their  long  and 
powerful  beams  across  the  sea.  Starting  from  two 
neighbouring  centres,  the  two  parallel  shafts  of 
light,  like  the  colossal  tails  of  two  comets,  fell  in  a 
straight  and  endless  slope  from  the  top  of  the  cliff 
to  the  uttermost  horizon.  Then,  on  the  two  piers, 
two  more  lights,  the  children  of  these  giants, 
marked  the  entrance  to  the  harbour  ;  and  far  away 
on  the  other  side  of  the  Seine  others  were  in  sight, 
many  others,  steady  or  winking,  flashing  or  re- 
volving, opening  and  shutting  like  eyes — the  eyes 
of  the  ports — yellow,  red,  and  green,  watching  the 
night-wrapped  sea  covered  with  ships  ;  the  living 
eyes  of  the  hospitable  shore  saying,  merely  by  the 
mechanical  and  regular  movement  of  their  eye-lids  : 
•"  I  am  here.  I  am  Trouville  ;  I  am  Honfleur  ;  I 
am  the  Audemer  River."  And  high  above  all  the 
rest,  so  high  that  from  this  distance  it  might  be 
taken  for  a  planet,  the  airy  lighthouse  of  Etouville 
showed  the  way  to  Rouen  across  the  sand  banks 
at  the  mouth  of  the  great  river. 

Out  on  the  deep  water,  the  limitless  water, 
darker  than  the  sky,  stars  seemed  to  have  fallen 
here  and  there.     They  twinkled  in  the  night  haze, 

41 


Pierre  and  Jean 

small,  close  to  shore  or  far  away — white,  red,  and 
green,  too.  Most  of  them  were  motionless;  some, 
however,  seemed  to  be  scudding  onward.  These 
were  the  lights  of  the  ships  at  anchor  or  moving 
about  in  search  of  moorings. 

Just  at  this  moment  the  moon  rose  behind  the 
town  ;  and  it,  too,  looked  like  some  huge,  divine 
pharos  lighted  up  in  the  heavens  to  guide  the 
countless  fleet  of  stars  in  the  sky.  Pierre  mur- 
mured, almost  speaking  aloud  :  "  Look  at  tiiat  ! 
And  we  let  our  bile  rise  for  twopence  !  " 

On  a  sudden,  close  to  him,  in  the  wide,  dark 
ditch  between  the  two  piers,  a  shadow  stole  up,  a 
large  shadow  of  fantastic  shape.  Leaning  over 
the  granite  parapet,  he  saw^  that  a  fishing-boat  had 
glided  in,  without  the  sound  of  a  voice  or  the 
splash  of  a  ripple,  or  tiic  j)lunge  of  an  oar,  softly 
borne  in  by  its  broad,  tawny  sail  spread  to  the 
breeze  from  the  open  sea. 

lie  thought  to  himself:  "If  one  could  but 
live  on  board  that  boat,  what  peace  it  would  be — 
perhaps  !  " 

And  then  again  a  few  steps  bevoiul.  he  saw 
a  man  sitting  at  tlie  very  end  of  the  break- 
water. 

A  dreamer,  a  lover,  a  sage — a  happy  or  a  des- 
perate man?     Who  was    it?      He  went    forward, 

42 


Pierre  and  Jean 


curious  to  sec  llic  face  of  tliis  lonely  individual, 
and  he  recognised  iiis  brother. 

"What,  is  it  you,  Jean  ?" 

"  Pierre  !    \'ou  !    What  has  brought  you  here  ?" 

"  I  came  out  to  get  some  fresh  air.  And 
you  .'' 

Jean  began  to  laugh. 

"  I  too  came  out  for  fresh  air."  >\nd  Pierre 
sat  down  by  his  brother's  side. 

"  Lovely — isn't  it  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  lovely." 

He  understood  from  the  tone  of  voice  that 
Jean  had  not  looked  at  anything.     He  went  on  : 

"  For  my  part,  whenever  I  come  here  I  am 
seized  with  a  wild  desire  to  be  ofT  with  all  those 
boats,  to  the  north  or  the  south.  Only  to  think 
that  all  those  little  sparks  out  there  have  just  come 
from  the  uttermost  ends  of  the  earth,  from  the 
lands  of  great  flowers  and  beautiful  olive  or  copper 
coloured  girls,  the  lands  of  humming-birds,  of  ele- 
phants, of  roaming  lions,  of  negro  kings,  from  all 
the  lands  w^hich  are  like  fairy-tales  to  us  who  no 
longer  believe  in  the  White  Cat  or  the  Sleeping 
Beauty.  It  would  be  awfully  jolly  to  be  able  to 
treat  one's  self  to  an  excursion  out  there  ;  but, 
then,  it   would   cost  a  great   deal  of  money,  no 

end " 

43 


Pierre  and  Jean 

Ile  broke  ofT  abruptly,  remembering  that  his 
brother  had  that  money  now  ;  and  released  from 
care,  released  from  labouring  for  his  daily  bread, 
free,  unfettered,  happy,  and  lighl-hcarlcd,  lie  might 
go  whither  he  listed,  to  liiul  the  fair-haired  Swedes 
or  the  brown  damsels  of  Havana.  And  then  one 
of  those  involuntary  Hashes  which  were  common 
with  him,  so  sudden  and  swift  that  he  could  neither 
anticipate  them,  nor  stop  them,  nor  qualify  them, 
communicated,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  from  some  sec- 
ond, independent,  and  violent  soul,  shot  through 
his  brain. 

'•  Bah  !  He  is  too  great  a  simpleton  ;  he  will 
marry  that  little  Rosémilly."  He  was  standing  up 
now.  "  I  will  leave  you  to  dream  of  the  future. 
I  want  to  be  moving."  He  grasped  his  brother's 
hand  and  added  in  a  heavy  tone  : 

"  Well,  my  dear  old  boy,  you  are  a  rich  man. 
I  am  very  glad  to  have  come  upon  you  this  even- 
ing to  tell  you  how  pleased  I  am  about  it,  how 
truly  I  congratulate  you,  and  how  much  I  care 
for  you." 

Jean,  tender  and  soft-hearted,  was  deeply 
touched. 

"Thank  you,  my  good  brother — thank  you!" 
he  stammered. 

And   Pierre  turned  away  with  his  slow  step, 
44 


Pierre  and  Jean 

his  stick  under  his  arm,  and  his  hands  behind  his 
back. 

Back  in  the  town  a<j:ain,  he  once  more  won- 
dered what  he  should  do,  being  disappointed  of 
his  walk  and  deprived  of  the  company  of  the  sea 
by  his  brother's  presence,  lie  had  an  inspiration. 
"  I  will  go  and  take  a  glass  of  liqueur  with  old 
Marowsko,"  and  he  went  off  towards  the  cjuarter 
of  the  town  known  as  Ingouville. 

He  had  known  old  Marowsko — Ic  pcre  Ma- 
rozvsko,  he  called  him — in  the  hospitals  in  Paris, 
lie  was  a  Pole,  an  old  refugee,  it  was  said,  who 
had  gone  through  terrible  things  out  there,  and 
who  had  come  to  })ly  his  calling  as  a  chemist  and 
druggist  in  France  after  passing  a  fresh  examina- 
tion. Nothing  was  known  of  his  early  life,  and 
all  sorts  of  legends  had  been  current  among  the 
indoor  and  outdoor  patients  and  afterward  among 
his  neighbours.  This  reputation  as  a  terrible  con- 
spirator, a  nihilist,  a  regicide,  a  patriot  ready  for 
anything  and  everything,  who  had  escaped  death 
by  a  miracle,  had  bewitched  Pierre  Roland's  lively 
and  bold  imagination  ;  he  had  made  friends  with 
the  old  Pole,  without,  however,  having  ever  ex- 
tracted from  him  any  revelation  as  to  his  former 
career.  It  was  owing  to  the  young  doctor  that 
this  worthy  had  come  to  settle  at  Havre,  counting 

45 


Pierre   and  jean 

on  tlic  laif^^c  custom  which  the  risin^r  practitioner 
would  secure  liini.  Meanwhile  he  liwd  very  poor- 
Iv  in  his  little  shop,  sellinj^  nu'dicines  to  the  small 
tradesmen  and  workmen  in  his  j)art  of  the  town. 

Pierre  often  went  to  see  him  and  chat  with 
iiim  for  an  hour  after  dinner,  for  he  liked  Ma- 
rowsko's  calm  look  and  rare  speech,  and  attributed 
great  depth  to  his  long  spells  of  silence. 

A  single  gas-burner  was  alight  over  the  coun- 
ter crowded  with  phials.  Those  in  the  window 
were  not  lighted,  from  motives  of  economy.  Be- 
hind the  counter,  sitting  on  a  chair  with  his  legs 
stretched  out  and  crossed,  an  old  man,  quite  bald, 
with  a  large  beak  of  a  nose  which,  as  a  prolonga- 
tion of  his  hairless  forehead,  gave  him  a  melan- 
choly likeness  to  a  parrot,  was  sleeping  soundly, 
his  chin  resting  on  his  breast.  He  woke  at  the 
sound  of  the  shop-bell,  and  recognising  the  doc- 
tor, came  forward  to  meet  him,  holding  out  both 
hands. 

1 1  is  black  frock-coat,  streaked  with  stains  of 
acids  and  sirups,  was  much  too  wide  for  his  lean 
little  person,  and  looked  like  a  shabby  old  cassock  ; 
and  the  man  spoke  with  a  strong  Polish  accent 
which  gave  a  childlike  character  to  his  thin  voice, 
the  lisping  note  and  intonations  of  a  young  thing 
learning  to  speak. 

46 


Pierre   and  Jean 

Pierre  sat  down,  and  Marowsko  asked  him: 
"What  news,  dear  doetor?" 

"  None.     Everything  as  usual,  everywhere." 

"  You  do  not  look  very  gay  this  evening." 

"  I  ani  not  often  gay." 

"  Come,  eome,  you  must  shake  that  off.  Will 
you  try  a  glass  of  liqueur?" 

"  Yes,  I  do  not  mind." 

"Then  I  will  give  you  something  new  to  try. 
For  these  two  months  I  have  been  trying  to  ex- 
tract something  from  currants,  of  which  only  a 
sirup  has  been  made  hitherto — well,  and  I  have 
done  it.  I  have  invented  a  very  good  liqueur — 
very  good  indeed  ;  very  good." 

And  quite  delighted,  he  went  to  a  cupboard, 
opened  it,  and  picked  out  a  bottle  which  he 
brought  forth.  He  moved  and  did  everything 
m  jerky  gestures,  always  incomplete  ;  he  never 
quite  stretched  out  his  arm,  nor  quite  put  out  his 
legs  ;  nor  made  any  broad  and  definite  move- 
ments. His  ideas  seemed  to  be  like  his  actions; 
he  suggested  them,  promised  them,  sketched  them, 
hinted  at  them,  but  never  fully  uttered  them. 

And,  indeed,  his  great  end  in  life  seemed  to  be 
the  concoction  of  sirups  and  liqueurs.  "  A  good 
sirup  or  a  good  liqueur  is  enough  to  make  a  for- 
tune," he  would  often  say. 

47 


Pierre  and  Jean 


Ile  had  conipuuncKd  hundreds  uf  tiicse  swcct 
mixtures  without  ever  suececdinix  in  floating  one 
of  iheni.  Pierre  deelared  that  Marowsko  always 
reminded  liini  of  Marat. 

Two  little  glasses  were  felehed  out  of  ilie  back 
shop  ami  ])laccd  on  the  mixing-board.  Then  the 
two  men  scrutinized  the  colour  of  the  lluid  by 
holding  it  up  to  the  gas. 

"  A  fine  ruby,"  Pierre  declared. 

"  Isn't  it  ?  "  Marowsko's  old  parrot-face  beamed 
with  satisfaction. 

The  doctor  tasted,  smacked  his  lips,  meditated, 
tasted  again,  meditated  again,  and  spoke  : 

"  Very  good — capital  ;  and  quite  new  in  fla- 
vour.     It  is  a  find,  my  dear  fellow." 

"  Ah,  really  ?     Well,  I  am  very  glad." 

Then  Marowsko  took  counsel  as  to  baptizing 
the  new  liqueur.  He  wanted  to  call  it  "  Extract 
of  currants,"  or  else  ''Fine  G?'oscilIc,''  or  "  Grosé- 
lia^'  or  again  "  Groscliney  Pierre  did  not  ap- 
prove of  either  of  these  names. 

Then  the  old  man  had  an  idea  : 

"What  you  said  just  now  would  be  very  good, 
very  good:  'Fine  Ruby.'"  Hiii  the  d(.)etor  dis- 
puted the  merit  of  this  name,  thougli  it  had  origi- 
nated with  him.  He  recommended  simply  "  Gro- 
seillctte,"  which  Marowsko  thought  admirable. 

48 


Pierre   and  Jean 


Then  liicy  were  silent,  and  sal  for  sf)nie  min- 
utes without  a  word  under  tlic  soHtary  <]^as-lamp. 
At  last  Pierre  began,  almost  in  spite  oi  him- 
self : 

"  A  queer  thing  has  haj)pened  at  home  this 
evening.  A  friend  of  my  father's,  who  is  lately 
dead,  has  left  his  fortune  to  my  brother," 

The  druggist  did  not  at  fust  seem  to  under- 
stand, but  after  thinking  it  over  he  hoped  that 
the  doctor  had  half  the  inheritance.  When  the 
matter  was  clearly  explained  to  him  he  appeared 
surprised  and  vexed  ;  and  to  express  his  dissatis- 
faction at  finding  that  his  young  friend  had  been 
sacrificed,  he  said  several  times  over  : 

"  It  will  not  look  well." 

Pierre,  who  was  relapsing  into  nervous  irrita- 
tion, wanted  to  know  what  Marowsko  meant  by 
this  phrase. 

Why  would  it  not  look  well  ?  What  was 
there  to  look  badly  in  the  fact  that  his  brother 
had  come  into  the  money  of  a  friend  of  the 
family  ? 

But  the  cautious  old  man  would  not  explain 
further. 

"  In  such  a  case  the  money  is  left  equally  to 
the  two  brothers,  and  I  tell  you,  it  will  not  look 
well." 

4  49 


Pierre   and  jean 

And  the  doctor,  out  of  all  jiaticncc,  went 
awav,  returned  to  his  father's  house,  and  went 
to  bed.  l''or  some  time  afterward  lie  licard  Jean 
moving  softly  about  the  adjoining  room,  and 
then,  after  drinking  two  glasses  of  water,  he  fell 
asleep. 


50 


CHAPTER  III 

The  doctor  awoke  next  morning  firmly  re- 
solved to  make  his  fortune.  Several  times  already 
he  had  come  to  the  same  determination  without 
following  up  the  reality.  At  the  outset  of  all  his 
trials  of  some  new  career  the  hopes  of  rapidly  ac- 
quired riches  kept  up  his  efforts  and  confidence, 
till  the  first  obstacle,  the  first  check,  threw  him 
into  a  fresh  path.  Snug  in  bed  between  the  warm 
sheets,  he  lay  meditating.  How  many  medical 
men  had  become  wealthy  in  quite  a  short  time  ! 
All  that  was  needed  was  a  little  knowledge  of 
the  world  ;  for  in  the  course  of  his  studies  he  had 
learned  to  estimate  the  most  famous  physicians, 
and  he  judged  them  all  to  be  asses,  tîe  was  cer- 
tainly as  good  as  they,  if  not  better.  If  by  any 
means  he  could  secure  a  practice  among  the  wealth 
and  fashion  of  Havre,  he  could  easily  make  a  hun- 
dred thousand  francs  a  year.  And  he  calculated 
with  great  exactitude  what  his  certain  profits  must 
be.  He  would  go  out  in  the  mornings  to  visit  his 
patients  ;  at  the  very  moderate  average  of  ten  a 

51 


Pierre  and  Jean 

day,  at  twenty  francs  each,  that  would  mount  up 
to  seventy-two  thousand  francs  a  year  at  least,  or 
even  seventy-five  thousand  ;  fur  ten  j)aticnts  was 
certainly  below  the  mark.  In  the  afternoon  he 
would  be  at  home  to,  say,  another  ten  patients,  at 
ten  francs  each — thirty-six  thousand  francs.  Here, 
then,  in  round  numbers,  was  an  income  of  twenty 
thousand  francs.  Old  patients,  or  friends  whom 
he  would  charge  only  ten  francs  for  a  visit,  or  see 
at  home  for  five,  would  perhaps  make  a  slight  re- 
duction on  this  sum  total,  but  consultations  with 
other  physicians  and  various  incidental  fees  would 
make  up  for  that. 

Nothinor  would  be  easier  than  to  achieve  this 

o 

by  skilful  advertising  remarks  in  tiie  l^garo  to 
the  effect  that  tlie  scientific  faculty  of  Paris  had 
their  eve  on  him,  and  were  interested  in  the  cures 
effected  by  the  modest  young  practitioner  of 
Havre  !  And  he  would  be  richer  than  his  brother, 
richer  and  more  famous  ;  and  satisfied  with  him- 
self, for  he  would  owe  his  fortune  solely  to  his 
own  exertions  ;  and  liberal  to  his  old  parents,  who 
would  be  justly  proud  of  his  fame.  He  would 
not  marry,  would  not  burden  his  life  with  a  wife 
who  would  be  in  his  wa\-,  but  he  would  choose  his 
mistress  from  the  most  beautiful  of  his  patients. 
He    felt  so  sure  of   success  that    he    sprang   out 

t;2 


Pierre  and  Jean 

of  bed  as  though  to  grasp  it  on  tlic  spot,  and  he 
dressed  to  go  and  search  through  the  town  for 
rooms  to  suit  him. 

Then,  as  he  wandered  about  the  streets,  he 
reflected  how  sUght  are  the  causes  which  determine 
our  actions.  Any  time  liiese  three  weeks  he  might 
and  ought  to  iiave  come  to  this  decision,  which, 
beyond  a  doubt,  the  news  of  his  brother's  inherit- 
ance had  abruptly  given  rise  to. 

He  stopped  before  every  door  where  a  placard 
proclaimed  that  "  fine  apartments"  or  "handsome 
rooms  "  were  to  be  let  ;  announcements  without  an 
adjective  he  turned  from  with  scorn.  Then  he  in- 
spected them  with  a  lofty  air,  measuring  the  height 
of  the  rooms,  sketching  the  plan  in  his  note-book, 
with  the  passages,  the  arrangement  of  the  exits, 
explaining  that  he  was  a  medical  man  and  had 
many  visitors.  He  must  have  a  broad  and  well- 
kept  stair-case  ;  nor  could  he  be  any  higher  up  than 
the  first  floor. 

After  having  written  down  seven  or  eight 
addresses  and  scribbled  two  hundred  notes,  he 
got  home  to  breakfast  a  quarter  of  an  hour  too 
late. 

In  the  hall  he  heard  the  clatter  of  plates.  Then 
they  had  begun  without  him  !  Why  ?  They  were 
never  wont  to  be  so  punctual.     He  was  nettled 

53 


Pierre  and  Jean 

ami  put  out.  for  lie  was  sonu-what  thin-skinned. 
As  he  WLiU  in  Kohuul  said  to  him  : 

"  Conu',  Pierre,  make  haste,  tlevil  take  you! 
Yon  know  we  have  to  be  at  the  lawyer's  at  two 
o'clock.  This  is  not  the  day  to  be  dawdling 
about." 

Pierre  sat  down  without  replying,  after  kissing 
his  mother  and  shaking  hands  with  his  father  and 
brother  ;  and  he  helped  himself  from  the  deep  dish 
in  the  middle  of  the  table  to  the  cutlet  which  had 
been  kept  for  him.  It  was  cold  and  dry,  probably 
the  least  tempting  of  them  all.  He  thought  that 
they  might  have  left  it  on  the  lu)t  plate  till  he 
came  in,  and  not  lose  their  heads  so  completely  as 
to  have  for^jottcn  their  other  son,  their  eldest. 

The  conversation,  whieh  his  entrance  had  in- 
terrupted, was  taken  up  again  at  the  point  where 
it  had  ceased. 

"  In  your  place,"  Mme.  Roland  was  saying  to 
Jean,  "  I  will  tell  you  what  I  should  do  at  once. 
I  should  settle  in  handsome  rooms  so  as  to  attract 
attenli(jn  ;  I  should  ride  on  horseback  and  select 
one  or  two  interesting  cases  to  defend  and  make  a 
mark  in  court.  I  would  be  a  sort  of  amateur 
lawyer,  and  very  select.  Thank  God  you  are  out 
of  all  danger  of  want,  and  if  xon  j)ursue  a  profes- 
sion, it  is,  after  all,  onl\'  that  you  may  not  lose  the 

54 


Pierre  and  Jean 


benefit  of  your  studies,  and  because  a  man  ought 
never  to  sit  idle." 

Old  Roland,  who  was  peeling  a  jK'ar,  ex- 
claimed : 

"  Christi  !  In  your  j)lace  I  should  buy  a  nice 
yacht,  a  cutter  on  the  build  of  our  j)il()t-boats.  I 
would  sail  as  far  as  Senegal  in  such  a  boat  as  that." 

Pierre,  in  his  turn,  spoke  his  views.  After  all, 
said  he,  it  was  not  his  wealth  which  made  the 
moral  worth,  the  intellectual  worth  of  a  man.  To 
a  man  of  inferior  mind  it  was  only  a  means  of 
degradation,  while  in  the  hands  of  a  strong  man  it 
was  a  powerful  lever.  They,  to  be  sure,  were  rare. 
If  Jean  were  a  really  superior  man,  now  that  he 
could  never  want  he  might  prove  it.  But  then  he 
must  work  a  hundred  times  harder  than  he  would 
have  done  in  other  circumstances.  His  business 
now  must  be  not  to  argue  for  or  against  the  widow 
and  the  orphan,  and  pocket  his  fees  for  every  case 
he  gained,  but  to  become  a  really  eminent  legal 
authority,  a  luminary  of  the  law.  And  he  added 
in  conclusion  : 

"  If  I  were  rich  wouldn't   I  dissect  no  end  of 
bodies  !" 

Father  Roland  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"That  is  all  very  fine,"  he  said.  "But  the 
wisest  way  of  life  is  to  take  it  easy.     We  are  not 

55 


Pierre  and  [can 

beasts  of  bunion,  but  men.  If  \()U  arc  born  poor 
you  must  work  ;  well,  so  much  the  worse  ;  and 
Vt)U  do  work.  Hut  wlurc  )(>u  have  dividends! 
Vi»u  must  be  a  Ikit  if  you  L;rind  yourself  to  death." 

Pierre  replied  haughtily  :  ' 

"Our  notions  differ.  For  my  part,  I  respect 
nothing  on  earth  but  learning  and  intellect  ;  every- 
thing else  is  beneath  contempt." 

Mme.  Roland  always  tried  to  deaden  the  con- 
stant shocks  between  father  and  son  ;  she  turned 
the  conversation,  and  began  talking  of  a  murder 
committed  the  week  before  at  Bolbcc  Xcnntot. 
Their  minds  were  immediately  full  of  the  circum- 
stances under  which  the  crime  had  been  com- 
mitted, and  absorbed  by  the  interesting  horror,  the 
attractive  mystery  of  crime,  which,  however  com- 
monplace, shameful,  and  disgusting,  exercises  a 
strange  and  universal  fascination  over  the  curiosity 
of  mankind.  Now  and  again,  however,  old  Ro- 
land looked  at  his  watch.  "  Come,"  said  he,  "  it  is 
time  to  be  going." 

Pierre  sneered. 

"  It  is  not  yet  one  o'clock,"  he  said.  "  It  really 
was  hardly  worth  while  to  condemn  me  to  eat  a 
cold  cutlet." 

"  Arc  you  coming  to  the  Jawyer's  ?"  his  mother 
asked. 

56 


Pierre  and  Jean 

"I?  No.  What  for?"  he  replied  dryly. 
"  My  presence  is  quite  unnecessary." 

Jean  sat  silent,  as  though  he  had  no  concern  in 
the  matter.  \Vhen  they  were  discussing  the  mur- 
der at  Bolbec  he,  as  a  legal  authority,  had  put  for- 
ward some  opinions  and  uttered  some  reflections 
on  crime  and  criminals.  Now  he  sj)oke  no  more  ; 
but  the  sparkle  in  his  eye,  the  bright  colour  in  his 
cheeks,  the  very  gloss  of  his  beard  seemed  to  pro- 
claim his  happiness. 

When  the  family  had  gone,  Pierre,  alone  once 
more,  resumed  his  investigations  in  the  apartments 
to  let.  After  two  or  three  hours  spent  in  going 
up  and  down  stairs,  he  at  last  found,  in  the  Boule- 
vard François,  a  pretty  set  of  rooms  ;  a  spacious 
entresol  with  two  doors  on  two  different  streets, 
two  drawing-rooms,  a  glass  corridor,  where  his  pa- 
tients while  they  waited,  might  walk  among  flow- 
ers, and  a  delightful  dining-room  with  a  bow-win- 
dow looking  out  over  the  sea. 

When  it  came  to  taking  it,  the  terms — three 
thousand  francs — pulled  him  up  ;  the  first  quarter 
must  be  paid  in  advance,  and  he  had  nothing,  not 
a  penny  to  call  his  own. 

The  little  fortune  his  father  had  saved  brought 
him  in  about  eight  thousand  francs  a  year,  and 
Pierre  had  often  blamed  himself  for  having  placed 

57 


Pierre  and  Jean 

his  parents  in  dirficullics  by  liis  lonij^  delay  in  de- 
ciding on  a  j)rofession,  by  forfeiting  his  attnnjits 
and  betiinnin;-'  fresh  C(.)urses  of  studw  So  he  went 
awav,  promising  to  senti  his  answer  within  two 
days,  and  it  oeeurretl  lo  him  to  ask  Jean  to  K  lul 
him  the  amount  of  this  (punter's  rent,  or  even  of  a 
half-year,  fifteen  hundred  francs,  as  soon  as  Jean 
should  have  come  into  possession. 

"  It  will  be  a  loan  for  a  few  months  at  most," 
he  thought.  "  I  shall  repay  him,  very  likely,  be- 
fore the  end  of  the  year.  It  is  a  simple  matter, 
and  he  will  be  glad  to  do  so  much  for  me." 

As  it  was  not  yet  four  o'clock,  and  he  had 
nothing  to  do,  absolutely  nothing,  he  went  to  sit 
in  the  pul)lic  gardens  ;  and  he  remained  a  long 
time  on  a  bench,  without  an  idea  in  his  brain,  liis 
eyes  fixed  on  the  ground,  crushed  by  weariness 
amounting  to  distress. 

And  yet  this  was  how  he  had  been  living  all 
these  days  since  his  return  home,  without  suffering 
so  acutely  from  the  vacuity  of  his  existence  and 
from  inaction.  How  had  he  spent  his  time  from 
rising  in  the  morning  till  bed-time  ? 

He  had  loafed  on  the  ])icr  at  high  tide,  loafed 
in  the  streets,  loafed  in  the  cafés,  loafed  at  Marow- 
sko's,  loafed  everywhere.  And  on  a  sudden  this 
life,  which  he  had  endured  till  now,  had  become 

3^ 


Pierre  and  Jean 


odious,  intolerable.  If  he  had  had  any  pocket- 
money  he  would  have  taken  a  caniagt-  for  a  h^ng 
drive  in  the  eouiili\',  aloii^'  1)\'  the  faiin-ditchcs 
shaded  by  beech  and  elm  trees;  but  he  had  to 
think  twice  of  tiie  cost  of  a  glass  of  beer  or  a 
postage-stamp,  and  such  an  indidgence  was  out  of 
his  ken.  It  suddenly  struck  him  iiow  hard  it  was 
for  a  man  of  past  thirty  to  be  reduced  to  ask  his 
mother,  with  a  blusli,  for  a  twenty-franc  piece 
every  now  and  then  ;  and  he  muttered,  as  lie 
scored  the  gravel  with  the  ferule  of  liis  stick  : 

"  Christi,  if  I  only  had  money  !" 

And  again  the  thought  of  his  brother's  legacy 
came  into  his  head  like  the  sting  of  a  wasj)  ;  but 
he  drove  it  out  indignantly,  not  choosing  to  allow 
himself  to  slip  down  that  descent  to  jealousy. 

Some  children  were  playing  about  in  the  dusty 
paths.  They  were  fair  little  things  with  long  hair, 
and  they  were  making  little  mounds  of  sand  with 
the  greatest  gravity  and  careful  attention,  to  crush 
them  at  once  by  stamping  on  them. 

It  was  one  of  those  gloomy  days  with  Pierre 
when  we  pry  into  every  corner  of  our  souls  and 
shake  out  every  crease. 

"  All  our  endeavours  are  like  the  labours  of 
those  babies,"  thought  he.  And  then  he  won- 
dered whether  the  wisest  thing  in  life  were  not  to 

59 


Pierre  and  Jean 


bcf^ct  two  or  three  of  tlicse  little  creatures  and 
watch  tiicni  grow  uj)  with  complacent  curiosity. 
A  longing  for  marriage  breathed  on  his  soul.  A 
man  is  not  so  lost  when  he  is  not  alone.  At  any 
,  rale,  he  hears  some  one  stirring  at  his  side  in  hours 
of  trouble  or  of  uncertainlv  ;  and  it  is  something 
only  to  be  able  to  speak  on  c(|ual  terms  to  a 
woman  when  one  is  sufTcring. 

Then  he  began  thinking  of  women.  He  knew 
very  little  of  them,  never  having  had  any  but  very 
transient  connections  as  a  medical  student,  broken 
off  as  soon  as  the  month's  allowance  was  spent, 
and  renewed  or  replaced  by  another  the  following 
montli.  And  yet  there  must  be  some  very  kind, 
gentle,  and  comforting  creatures  among  them. 
Had  not  his  mother  been  the  good  sense  and 
saving  grace  of  his  own  home  ?  How  glad  he 
would  be  to  know  a  woman,  a  true  woman  ! 

He  started  up  with  a  sudden  determination  to 
go  and  call  on  Mme.  Rosémilly.  But  he  promptly 
sat  down  again.  He  did  not  like  that  woman. 
Why  not  ?  She  had  too  much  vulgar  and  sordid 
common  sense  ;  besides,  did  she  not  seem  to  pre- 
fer Jean  ?  Wiiiiout  confessing  it  to  himself  too 
bluntly,  this  preference  had  a  great  deal  to  do 
with  his  low  opinion  of  the  widow's  intellect  ;  for, 
though  he  loved   his  brother,   he  could   not   help 

Co 


Pierre  and  Jean 

thinking  him  somewhat  mediocre  and  believing 
himself  the  superior.  However,  he  was  not  going 
to  sit  there  till  nightfall  ;  and  as  he  had  done  on 
the  previous  evening,  he  anxiously  asked  himself  : 
"  What  am  I  going  to  do  ?  " 

At  this  moment  he  felt  in  his  soul  the  need 
of  a  melting  mood,  of  being  embraced  and  com- 
forted. Comforted — for  what?  He  could  not 
have  put  it  into  words  ;  l)ut  he  was  in  one  of 
those  hours  of  weakness  and  exhaustion  when  a 
woman's  presence,  a  woman's  kiss,  the  touch  of  a 
hand,  the  rustle  of  a  petticoat,  a  soft  look  out  of 
black  or  blue  eyes,  seem  the  one  thing  needful, 
there  and  then,  to  our  heart.  And  the  memory 
flashed  upon  him  of  a  little  barmaid  at  a  beer- 
house, whom  he  had  walked  home  with  one  even- 
ing, and  seen  again  from  time  to  time. 

So  once  more  he  rose,  to  go  and  drink  a  bock 
with  the  girl.  What  should  he  say  to  her  ?  What 
would  she  say  to  him  ?  Nothing,  probably.  But 
what  did  that  matter  ?  He  would  hold  her  hand 
for  a  few  seconds.  She  seemed  to  have  a  fancy 
for  him.  W^hy,  then,  did  he  not  go  to  see  her 
oftener  ? 

He  found  her  dozing  on  a  chair  in  the  beer- 
shop,  which  was  almost  deserted.  Three  men 
were  drinking  and  smoking  with  their  elbows  on 

6i 


Pierre  and  Jean 

the  oak  tables  ;  the  book-keeper  in  lier  desk  was 
readiiiii:  a  novel,  while  the  master,  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves, lay  sound  asleep  on  a  beneh. 

As  soon  as  she  saw  liiin  the  girl  ruse  eagerly, 
and  coming  to  meet  him,  said  : 

"  Good-day,  monsieur — how  are  you  ?" 

"  Pretty  well  ;  and  you  ?  " 

"I — oh,  very  well.  How  scarce  you  make 
yourself  !  " 

"Yes.  I  have  very  little  time  to  myself.  I 
am  a  doctor,  you  know." 

"Indeed!  You  never  told  me.  If  1  had 
known  that — I  was  out  of  sorts  last  week  and 
I  would  have  sent  for  you.  What  will  you 
take?" 

"  A  bock.     And  you  ?" 

"  I  will  have  a  bock,  too,  since  you  arc  willing 
to  treat  me." 

She  had  addressed  him  with  the  familiar  ///, 
and  continued  to  use  it,  as  if  the  ofTer  of  a  drink 
had  tacitly  conveyed  permission.  Then,  sitting 
down  opposite  each  other,  they  talked  for  a  while. 
Every  now  and  then  she  took  his  hand  with  the 
light  familiarity  of  girls  whose  kisses  are  for  sale, 
and  looking  at  him  with  inviting  eyes  she  said  : 

"  Why  don't  you  come  here  oftener  ?  I  like 
you  very  much,  sweetheart." 

62 


Pierre  and  Jean 

He  was  already  disgusted  with  her  ;  he  saw 
how  stupid  she  was,  and  common,  smacking  of 
low  hfe.  A  woman,  lie  told  himself,  should  appear 
to  us  in  dream,  or  such  a  glory  as  may  poetize  her 
vulgarity. 

Next  she  asked  him  : 

"  You  went  by  the  other  morning  with  a  hand- 
some fair  man,  wearing  a  big  beard,  is  he  your 
brother  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  is  my  brother." 

"  Awfully  good-looking." 

"  Do  you  think  so?" 

"  Yes,  indeed  ;  and  he  looks  like  a  man  who 
enjoys  life,  too." 

What  strange  craving  impelled  him  on  a  sud- 
den to  tell  this  tavern-wench  about  Jean's  legacy  ? 
Why  should  this  thing,  which  he  kept  at  arm's- 
length  when  he  was  alone,  which  he  drove  from 
him  for  fear  of  the  torment  it  brought  upon  his 
soul,  rise  to  his  lips  at  this  moment  ?  And  why 
did  he  allow  it  to  overflow  them,  as  if  he  needed 
once  more  to  empty  out  his  heart  to  some  one, 
gorged  as  it  was  with  bitterness  ? 

He  crossed  his  legs  and  said  : 

"  He  has  wonderful  luck,  that  brother  of  mine. 
He  has  just  come  into  a  legacy  of  twenty  thousand 
francs  a  year." 

63 


Pierre   aiul   [can 

She  opened  those  covetous  blue  eyes  of  hers 
very  wide. 

"Oh!  and  wlio  left  him  that?  His  grand- 
mother or  his  aunt  ?" 

"  No.     An  uld  friend  of  my  j)arents'." 

"  Only  a  friend  !  Impossible  !  And  you — did 
he  leave  you  nothing?" 

"  No.      I  knew  him  very  slightly." 

She  sat  thinking  some  minutes  ;  then,  with  an 
odd  smile  on  her  lips,  she  said  : 

"  Well,  he  is  a  lucky  dog,  that  brother  of  yours, 
to  have  friends  of  this  pattern.  My  word  !  and  no 
wonder  he  is  so  unlike  you." 

He  longed  to  slap  her,  without  knowing  why  ; 
and  he  asked  with  pinched  lips:  ".Aiul  what  do 
you  mean  by  saying  that  ?" 

She  had  put  on  a  stolid,  innocent  face. 

"  O — h,  nothing.  I  mean  he  has  better  luck 
than  you." 

lie  tossed  a  franc  piece  on  the  table  and 
went  out. 

Now  he  kept  repealing  the  phrase  :  "No 
wonder  he  is  so  unlike  you." 

What  had  her  thought  been,  what  had  been 
her  meaning  under  those  words?  There  was  cer- 
tainlv  some  malice,  some  spite,  somi-thing  shame- 
ful in   it.      \'es,  that  hussy  must    have   fancied,  no 

64 


Pierre  and  Jean 


doubt,  that  Jean  was  Maréchal's  son.  The  agita- 
tion which  came  over  him  at  the  notion  of  this 
suspicion  cast  at  his  mother  was  so  violent  tliat  he 
stood  still,  looking  about  him  for  some  place 
where  he  mijrht  sit  down.  In  front  of  him  was 
another  café.  He  went  in,  took  a  chair,  and  as 
the  waiter  came  up,  "  A  bock,"  he  said. 

He  felt  his  heart  beating,  his  skin  was  goose- 
flesh.  And  then  the  recollection  flashed  upon  him 
of  what  Marowsko  had  said  the  evening  before. 
"  It  will  not  look  well."  Had  he  had  the  same 
thought,  the  same  suspicion  as  this  baggage  ? 
Hanging  his  head  over  the  glass,  he  watched  the 
white  froth  as  the  bubbles  rose  and  burst,  asking 
himself:  "  Is  it  possible  that  such  a  thing  should 
be  believed  ?  " 

But  the  reasons  which  might  give  rise  to  this 
horrible  doubt  in  other  men's  minds  now  struck 
him,  one  after  another,  as  plain,  obvious,  and  exas- 
perating. That  a  childless  old  bachelor  should 
leave  his  fortune  to  a  friend's  two  sons  was  the 
most  simple  and  natural  thing  in  the  world  ;  but 
that  he  should  leave  the  whole  of  it  to  one  alone — 
of  course  people  would  wonder,  and  whisper,  and 
end  by  smiling.  How  was  it  that  he  had  not  fore- 
seen this,  that  his  father  had  not  felt  it?  How 
was  it  that  his  mother  had  not  guessed  it  ?  No  ; 
s  65 


Pierre   and  Jean 


thcv  had  been  too  delighted  al  tliis  unhoped-for 
wealth  for  the  idea  to  come  near  tin  in.  And 
besides,  how  should  these  worthy  S(nils  have  ever 
dreamed  of  anything  so  ignominious  ? 

But  the  public — their  neighbours,  the  shop- 
keepers, their  own  tradesmen,  all  who  knew  tluni 
— would  not  they  rejx'at  the  abominable  thing, 
laugh  at  it,  enjoy  it,  make  game  of  his  father  and 
despise  his  mother  ? 

And  the  barmaid's  remark  that  Jean  was  fair 
and  he  dark,  that  they  were  not  in  the  least  alike 
in  face,  manner,  figure,  or  intelligence,  would  now 
strike  every  eye  and  every  mind.  When  any  one 
spoke  of  Roland's  son,  the  question  would  be  : 
"  Which,  the  real  or  the  false  ?" 

He  rose,  firmlv  resolved  to  warn  Jean,  and  put 
him  on  his  guard  against  the  frightful  danger 
which  threatened  their  mother's  honour. 

But  what  could  Jean  do  ?  The  simplest  thing, 
no  doubt,  would  be  to  refuse  the  inheritance, 
which  would  then  go  to  the  poor,  and  to  UU  all 
friends  or  acquaintances  who  had  heard  of  the 
bequest  that  the  will  contained  clauses  and  condi- 
tions impossible  to  subscribe  to.  which  would  have 
made  Jean  not  inheritor  but  nicrcU'  a  trustee. 

As  he  made  his  way  home  he  was  thinking 
that  he  must  sec  his  brother  alone,  so  as  not  to 

66 


Pierre  and  Jean 

speak  of  such  a  hkiIUt  in  the  presence  of  his 
parents.  On  rcacliing  the  door  lie  heard  a  j:^reat 
noise  of  voices  and  laiifj^iiler  in  the  drawing-room, 
and  when  he  went  in  lie  found  Captain  Beau- 
sire  and  Mme.  Rosémilly,  whom  his  father  had 
brought  home  and  engaged  to  dine  with  them  in 
honour  of  the  good  news.  \^ermouth  and  ab- 
sinthe had  been  served  to  whet  their  appetites, 
and  every  one  had  been  at  once  put  into  good 
spirits.  Captain  Beausire,  a  funny  little  man  who 
had  become  quite  round  by  dint  of  being  rolled 
about  at  sea,  and  whose  ideas  also  seemed  to  have 
been  worn  round,  like  the  pebbles  of  a  beach, 
while  he  laughed  with  his  throat  full  of  r's,  looked 
upon  life  as  a  capital  thing,  in  which  everything 
that  might  turn  up  was  good  to  take.  He  clinked 
his  glass  against  father  Roland's,  w^hile  Jean  was 
offering  two  freshly  filled  glasses  to  the  ladies. 
Mme.  Rosémilly  refused,  till  Captain  Beausire, 
wdio  had  known  her  husband,  cried  : 

"  Come,  come,  madame,  bis  rcpctita  placent, 
as  we  say  in  the  lingo,  which  is  as  much  as  to 
say  two  glasses  of  vermouth  never  hurt  any  one. 
Look  at  me  ;  since  I  have  left  the  sea,  in  this  way 
I  give  myself  an  artificial  roll  or  two  every  day  be- 
fore dinner  ;  I  add  a  little  pitching  after  my  coffee, 
and  that  keeps  things  lively  for  the  rest  of  the 

67 


Pierre  and   )can 

evening.      I   never  rise  to  a  hurricane,  mind  you, 
never,  never.      1  am  loo  mueli  afraitl  of  damage." 

Roland,  wliose  nautical  mania  was  humoured 
by  the  old  mariner,  laugiied  heart il\',  iiis  face 
flushed  already  and  his  eye  watery  from  the  ab- 
sinthe, lie  had  a  burly  shojvkeeping  stomach — 
nothiuii'  but  stomach — in  which  the  rest  of  his 
body  seemed  to  have  got  stowed  away  ;  the  flabby 
paunch  of  men  who  spend  their  lives  sitting,  and 
who  have  neither  thighs,  nor  chest,  nor  arms,  nor 
neck  ;  the  seat  of  their  chairs  having  accumulated 
all  their  substance  in  one  spot.  Beausire,  on  the 
contrary,  though  short  and  stout,  was  as  tight  as 
an  egg  and  as  hard  as  a  cannon-ball. 

Mme.  Roland  had  not  emptied  her  glass  and 
was  gazing  at  her  son  Jean  with  sparkling  eyes; 
happiness  had  brought  a  colour  to  her  cheeks. 

In  him,  too,  the  fulness  of  joy  had  now  blazed 
out.  It  was  a  settled  thing,  signed  and  sealed  ; 
he  had  twenty  thousand  francs  a  year.  In  the 
sound  of  his  laugh,  in  the  fuller  voice  with  which 
he  spoke,  in  his  way  of  looking  at  the  otiiers,  his 
more  positive  manners,  his  greater  confidence,  the 
assurance  given  by  money  was  at  once  perceptible. 

Dinner  was  announced,  and  as  the  old  man 
was  about  to  ofTer  his  arm  to  Mme.  Rosémilly,  his 
wife  exclaimed  : 

68 


Pierre  and  Jean 

"  No,  no,  father.  Evcrylhing  is  for  Jean  to- 
day." 

Unwonted  luxury  graced  llie  table.  In  front 
of  Jean,  who  sat  in  his  father's  j)lace,  an  enormous 
bouquet  of  flowers  intermingled  with  ribbon 
favours — a  boucjuet  for  a  really  great  occasion — 
stood  uj)  like  a  cupola  dressed  with  flags,  and  was 
flanked  by  four  high  dishes,  one  containing  a 
pyramid  of  splendid  peaches  ;  the  second,  a  monu- 
mental cake  gorged  with  whipped  cream  and  cov- 
ered with  pinnacles  of  sugar — a  cathedral  in  con- 
fectionery ;  the  third,  slices  of  pine-apple  floating 
in  clear  sirup  ;  and  the  fourth — unheard-of  lavish- 
ness — black  grapes  brought  from  the  warmer 
south. 

"  The  devil  !  "  exclaimed  Pierre  as  he  sat  down. 
"We  are  celebrating  the  accession  of  Jean  the 
Rich." 

After  the  soup,  Madeira  was  passed  round,  and 
already  every  one  was  talking  at  once.  Beausire 
was  giving  the  history  of  a  dinner  he  had  eaten  at 
San  Domingo  at  the  table  of  a  negro  general.  Old 
Roland  was  listening,  and  at  the  same  time  trying 
to  get  in,  between  the  sentences,  his  account  of 
another  dinner,  given  by  a  friend  of  his  at  Men- 
don,  after  which  every  guest  was  ill  for  a  fortnight. 
Mme.  Rosémilly,  Jean,  and  his  mother  were  plan- 

69 


Pierre   and  Jean 

nino-  an  excursion  Id  breakfast  at  Saint  Jouin, 
fiDm  which  tlicy  promised  themselves  the  greatest 
pleasure;  and  Pierre  was  only  sorry  tiiat  he  had 
nt)t  dined  alone  in  some  pol-liouse  hy  the  sea,  so 
as  to  escape  all  this  noise  and  laughter  and  glee 
which  fretted  him.  He  was  wondering  how  lie 
could  now  set  to  work  to  confide  his  fears  to  his 
brother,  and  induce  him  to  renounce  the  fortune 
he  had  already  accepted  and  of  which  he  was  en- 
joying the  intoxicating  foretaste.  It  would  be 
hard  on  him,  no  doubt  ;  but  il  must  be  done  ;  he 
could  not  hesitate;  their  mother's  reputation  was 
at  stake. 

The  appearance  of  an  enormous  shade-fish 
threw  Roland  back  on  fishing  stories.  Beausire 
told  some  wonderful  tales  of  adventure  on  the 
Gaboon,  at  Sainte-Marie,  in  Madagascar,  and  above 
all,  off  the  coasts  of  China  and  Japan,  where  the 
fish  are  as  queer-looking  as  the  natives.  And  he 
described  the  appearance  of  these  fishes — their 
goggle  gold  eyes,  their  bhie  or  red  bcllits,  their 
fantastic  fins  like  fans,  tluir  eccentric  crescent- 
shaped  tails — wit  il  such  droll  gesticulation  that 
they  all  laughed  till  they  cried  as  they  listened. 

Pierre  alone  seemed  incredulous,  muttering  to 
himself:  "True  enough,  the  Normans  are  the 
Gascons  of  the  north  !" 

70 


Pierre  and  Jean 


After  the  fish  came  a  vol-au-vent  ;  then  a  roast 
fowl,  a  salad,  French  beans  with  a  Pithivicrs  lark- 
pie.  Mme.  Rosémilly's  maid-servant  helped  to 
wait  on  them,  and  the  fun  rose  wilii  the  number 
of  glasses  of  wine  they  drank.  When  the  cork  of 
the  fust  champagne-bottle  was  drawn  wilii  a  })op, 
father  Roland,  highly  excited,  imitated  the  noise 
with  his  tongue  and  then  declared  :  "  I  like  tiiat 
noise  better  than  a  pistol-shot." 

Pierre,  more  and  more  fractious  every  moment, 
retorted  with  a  sneer  : 

"  And  yet  it  is  perhaps  a  greater  danger  for 
you." 

Roland,  who  was  on  the  point  of  drinking,  set 
his  full  glass  down  on  the  table  again,  and  asked  : 

"Why?" 

He  had  for  some  time  been  complaining  of  his 
health,  of  heaviness,  giddiness,  frequent  and  unac- 
countable discomfort.     The  doctor  replied  : 

"  Because  the  bullet  might  very  possibly  miss 
you,  while  the  glass  of  wine  is  dead  certain  to  hit 
you  in  the  stomach." 

"And  what  then?" 

"Then  it  scorches  your  inside,  upsets  your 
nervous  system,  makes  the  circulation  sluggish, 
and  leads  the  way  to  the  apoplectic  fit  which  always 
threatens  a  man  of  your  build." 

71 


Pierre  and  Jean 


The  jeweller's  ineii>ient  intox ieati(Mi  IkuI  van- 
ished like  smoke  before  the  wind.  lie  looki'd  at 
his  son  with  fixed,  uneasy  eyes,  trying  to  discover 
whether  he  was  making  game  of  him. 

lUit  Beausire  exclaimed  : 

"Oh,  these  confoimded  doctors!  They  all 
sing  the  same  tune — eat  nothing,  drink  nothing, 
never  make  love  or  enjoy  yourself;  it  all  plays  the 
devil  with  your  precious  iiealth.  Well,  all  I  can 
say  is,  1  have  done  all  these  things,  sir,  in  every 
quarter  of  the  globe,  wherever  and  as  often  as 
I  have  had  the  chance,  and  I  am  none  the  worse." 

Pierre  answered  with  some  asperity  : 

"  In  the  first  place,  captain,  you  are  a  stronger 
man  than  my  father;  and  in  the  next,  all  free 
livers  talk  as  you  do  till  the  day  when — when  they 
come  back  no  more  to  say  to  the  cautious  doctor  : 
•  You  were  right.'  When  I  see  my  father  doing 
what  is  worst  and  most  dangerous  for  him,  it  is 
but  natural  that  I  should  warn  him.  I  should  be 
a  bad  son  if  I  did  otherwise." 

Mme.  Roland,  much  distressed,  now  ptit  in  her 
word:  "Come,  Pierre,  what  ails  you  ?  I'or  once 
it  cannot  hurt  him.  Think  of  what  an  occasion  it 
is  for  him,  for  all  of  us.  \'ou  will  spoil  his  pleas- 
ure and  make  us  all  unhai)py.  It  is  loo  bad  of  you 
to  do  such  a  thing." 

^2 


Pierre  and  Jean 


He  muttered,  as  lie  shrugged  his  shoulders  : 

"lie  can  do  as  lie  j)leases.  I  have  warned 
iiini." 

But  father  Roland  did  not  drink.  He  sat 
looking  at  his  glass  full  of  the  clear  and  luminous 
liquor  while  its  light  soul,  its  intoxicating  soul, 
flew  off  in  tiny  hubbies  mounting  from  its  depths 
in  hurried  succession  to  die  on  the  surface.  He 
looked  at  it  with  the  suspicious  eye  of  a  fox  smell- 
ing at  a  dead  hen  and  suspecting  a  traj).  lie  asked 
doubtfully  :  "  Do  you  think  it  will  really  do  me 
much  harm  ?  "  Pierre  had  a  pang  of  remorse  and 
blamed  himself  for  letting  his  ill-humour  punish 
the  rest. 

"  No,"  said  he.  "  Just  for  once  you  may  drink 
it  ;  but  do  not  take  too  much,  or  get  into  the  habit 
of  it." 

Then  old  Roland  raised  his  glass,  but  still  he 
could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  put  it  to  his  lips. 
He  contemplated  it  regretfully,  with  longing  and 
with  fear  ;  then  he  smelt  it,  tasted  it,  drank  it  in 
sips,  swallowing  them  slowly,  his  heart  full  of  ter- 
rors, of  weakness  and  greediness  ;  and  then,  when 
he  had  drained  the  last  drop,  of  regret. 

Pierre's  eye  suddenly  met  that  of  Mme.  Rosé- 
milly  ;  it  rested  on  him  clear  and  blue,  far-seeing 
and   hard.     And  he   read,  he   knew,  the   precise 

73 


Pierre   aiul  Jean 

tlîOULîht  wliich  linked  in  that  look,  the  indignant 
thouj^lit  of  this  sinijilc  and  light-niintlcd  little 
woman;  for  the  look  said:  "You  are  jealous — 
that  is  what  you  are.     Shameful  !  " 

He  bent  his  head  ami  went  on  with  his  dinner. 

He  was  not  iiungry  and  f(.)und  nuihim;  niee. 
A  lomrinc:  to  he  off  harassed  him,  a  craving  to  he 
away  from  these  people,  to  hear  no  more  of  their 
talking,  jests,  and  laughter. 

Father  Roland  meanwhile,  to  whose  head  the 
fumes  of  the  wine  were  rising  once  more,  had  al- 
ready forgotten  his  son's  advice  and  was  eyeing  a 
champagne-bottle  with  a  tender  leer  as  it  stood, 
still  nearly  full,  b\'  the  side  of  his  plate.  He  tlared 
not  touch  it  for  fear  of  being  lectured  again,  and 
he  was  wondering  by  what  device  or  trick  he  could 
possess  himself  of  it  without  exciting  Pierre's  re- 
mark. A  ruse  occurred  to  him,  the  simplest  pos- 
sible. He  took  up  the  bottle  with  an  air  of  indif- 
ference, and  holding  it  by  the  neck,  stretched  his 
arm  across  the  table  to  fdl  the  doctor's  glass,  which 
was  empty;  then  he  fdled  up  all  the  other  glasses, 
and  when  he  came  to  his  own  he  began  talking 
very  loud,  so  that  if  he  jxjured  anything  into  it 
they  might  have  sworn  it  was  done  inadvertently. 
And  in  fact  no  one  took  any  notice. 

Pierre,  without  observing   it,  was  drinking  a 
74 


Pierre  and  Jean 

good  deal.  Nervous  and  fretted,  lie  every  minute 
raised  to  his  lips  the  tall  crystal  funnel  where  the 
bubbles  were  dancing  in  the  living,  translucent 
fluid.  He  let  the  wine  slip  very  slowly  over  his 
tongue,  tiiat  he  might  feel  the  little  sugary  sting 
of  the  fixed  air  as  it  evaporated. 

Gradually  a  pleasant  warmth  glowed  in  his 
frame.  Starting  from  the  stomach  as  a  centre,  it 
spread  to  his  chest,  took  possession  of  his  limbs, 
and  diffused  itself  throughout  his  flesh,  like  a 
warm  and  comforting  tide,  bringing  pleasure  with 
it.  He  felt  better  now,  less  impatient,  less  an- 
noyed, and  his  determination  to  speak  to  his 
brother  that  very  evening  faded  away  ;  not  that 
he  thought  for  a  moment  of  giving  it  up,  but 
simply  not  to  disturb  the  happy  mood  in  which 
he  found  himself. 

Beausire  presently  rose  to  propose  a  toast. 
Having  bowed  to  the  company,  he  began  : 

"  Most  gracious  ladies  and  gentlemen,  we  have 
met  to  do  honour  to  a  happy  event  which  has  be- 
fallen one  of  our  friends.  It  used  to  be  said  that 
Fortune  was  blind,  but  I  believe  that  she  is  only 
short-sighted  or  tricksy,  and  that  she  has  lately 
bought  a  good  pair  of  glasses  which  enabled  her 
to  discover  in  the  town  of  Havre  the  son  of  our 
worthy  friend  Roland,  skipper  of  the  Pearl." 

75 


Pierre  and  ]ean 

Every  one  cried  luavo  and  elaj^jH-d  their  hands, 
and  tlic  elder  Rohmd  rose  to  re  ply.  After  clear- 
ings his  throat,  for  it  felt  thick  and  his  tongue  was 
heavy,  he  stammered  out  : 

"Thank  you,  captain,  thank  you — for  myself 
and  my  son.  I  shall  ne\er  forget  your  behaviour 
on  this  occasion.      Here's  good  luck  to  you  !" 

His  eyes  and  nose  were  full  of  tears,  and  he 
sat  down,  finding  nothing  more  to  say. 

Jean,  who  was  laughing,  sjioke  in  his  turn  : 

"It  is  I,"  said  he,  "who  ought  to  thank  my 
friends  here,  my  excellent  friends,"  and  he  glanced 
at  Mme.  Rosémilly,  "who  have  given  me  such  a 
touching  evidence  of  their  afïection.  But  it  is 
not  by  words  that  I  can  prove  my  gratitutle.  I 
will  prove  it  to-morrow,  every  hour  of  my  life, 
always,  for  our  friendship  is  not  one  of  those 
which  fade  away." 

His  mother,  deej)ly  moved,  murmured  :  "  Well 
said,  my  boy." 

But  Beausire  cried  out  : 

"  Come,  Mme.  Rosémilly,  speak  on  behalf  of 
the  fair  sex." 

She  raised  her  glass,  and  in  a  i)retty  voice, 
slightly  touched  witii  sadness,  she  said:  "I  will 
pledge  you  to  the  memory  of  M.  Maréchal." 

There  was  a  few  moments'  lull,  a  pause  for 
76 


Pierre   and   jeaii 

decent  meditation,  as  after  prayer.  Beausirc,  who 
always  had  a  flow  of  conipliniciU,  remarked  : 

"Only  a  woman  ever  thinks  of  these  refine- 
ments." Then  turning-  to  father  Roland:  "And 
who  was  this  Maréchal,  after  all  ?  Vou  must  have 
been  very  intimate  with  him." 

The  old  man,  emotional  with  drink,  began  to 
whimper,  and  in  a  broken  voice  he  said  : 

"  Like  a  brother,  you  know.  Such  a  friend 
as  one  does  not  make  twice — we  were  always  to- 
gether— he  dined  with  us  every  evening — and 
would  treat  us  to  the  play — I  need  say  no  more 
— no  more — no  more.  A  true  friend — a  real  true 
friend — wasn't  he,  Louise  ?  " 

His  wife  merely  answered  :  "  Yes  ;  he  was  a 
faithful  friend." 

Pierre  looked  at  his  father  and  then  at  his 
mother,  then,  as  the  subject  changed,  he  drank 
some  more  wine.  He  scarcely  remembered  the 
remainder  of  the  evening.  They  had  coffee,  then 
liqueurs,  and  they  laughed  and  joked  a  great  deal. 
At  about  midnight  he  went  to  bed,  his  mind  con- 
fused and  his  head  heavy  ;  and  he  slept  like  a 
brute  till  nine  next  morninc:. 


77 


CHAPTER   IV 

These  slumbers,  lapped  in  Champagne  and 
Chartreuse,  had  soothed  and  calmed  liini,  no 
doubt,  for  he  awoke  in  a  very  benevolent  frame 
of  mind.  While  he  was  dressing  he  appraised, 
weighed,  and  summed  up  the  agitations  of  the 
past  day,  trying  to  bring  out  quite  clearly  and  fully 
their  real  and  occult  causes,  those  personal  to  him- 
self as  well  as  those  from  outside. 

It  was,  in  fact,  possible  that  the  girl  at  the 
beer-shop  had  had  an  evil  suspicion — a  suspicion 
worthy  of  such  a  hussy — on  hearing  that  only  one 
of  the  Roland  brothers  had  been  made  heir  to  a 
stranger  ;  but  have  not  such  natures  as  she  always 
similar  notions,  without  a  shadow  of  foundation, 
about  every  honest  woman  ?  Do  they  not,  when- 
ever they  speak,  vilify,  calumniate,  and  abuse  all 
whom  they  believe  to  be  blameless  ?  Whenever  a 
woman  who  is  above  imputation  is  mentioned  in 
their  presence,  they  are  as  angry  as  if  they  were 
being  insulted,  and  e.xclaim  :  "  Ah,  yes,  I  know 
your    married   women  ;    a    pretty   sort    they    are  ! 

78 


Pierre  and   jean 

Why,  they  have  more  luvcrs  than  we  have,  only 
they  conceal  it  because  they  are  sucli  li}j)ocritcs. 
Oh,  yes,  a  pretty  sort,  indeed  !  " 

Under  any  other  circumstances  he  would  cer- 
tainly not  have  understood,  not  have  imagined  the 
possibility  of  such  an  insinuation  against  his  poor 
mother,  who  was  so  kind,  so  simple,  so  excellent. 
But  his  spirit  seethed  with  the  leaven  of  jealousy 
that  was  fermenting  within  him.  His  own  excited 
mind,  on  the  scent,  as  it  were,  in  spite  of  himself, 
for  all  that  could  damage  his  brother,  had  even 
perhaps  attributed  to  the  tavern  barmaid  an  odious 
intention  of  which  she  was  innocent.  It  was  pos- 
sible that  his  imagination  had,  unaided,  invented 
this  dreadful  doubt — his  imagination,  which  he 
never  controlled,  which  constantly  evaded  his  will 
and  went  off,  unfettered,  audacious,  adventurous, 
and  stealthy,  into  the  infinite  world  of  ideas,  bring- 
ing back  now  and  then  some  which  were  shame- 
less and  repulsive,  and  which  it  buried  in  him, 
in  the  depths  of  his  soul,  in  its  most  fathomless 
recesses,  like  something  stolen.  His  heart,  most 
certainly,  his  own  heart  had  secrets  from  him  ; 
and  had  not  that  wounded  heart  discerned  in 
this  atrocious  doubt  a  means  of  depriving  his 
brother  of  the  inheritance  of  which  he  was  jeal- 
ous ?     He  suspected   himself  now,   cross-examin- 

/9 


Pierre   and  Jean 


ing  all  the  mysteries  of  his  niiiid  as  higots  search 
their  consciences. 

Mme.  RosL'milly,  ihou^h  lur  intelligence  was 
limited,  luul  certainly  a  woman's  instinct,  sci-nt.ancl 
subtle  intuitions.  And  this  notion  had  never  en- 
tered her  head,  since  she  had,  with  perfect  sim- 
plicity, drunk  to  the  blessed  memory  of  the 
deceased  Maréchal.  She  was  not  the  woman  to 
have  done  this  if  she  had  had  the  faintest  susj^i- 
cion.  Now  he  doubted  no  longer  ;  his  involuntary 
displeasure  at  his  brother's  windfall  of  fortune  and 
liis  religious  afTection  for  his  mother  had  magnified 
iiis  scruples — very  pious  and  respectable  scruples, 
but  exaggerated.  As  he  put  this  conclusion  into 
words  in  his  own  mind  he  felt  hai)!^',  as  at  the 
doing  of  a  good  action  ;  and  he  resohed  to  be  nice 
to  every  one,  beginning  with  his  father,  whose 
manias,  and  silly  statements,  and  vulgar  opinions, 
and  too  conspicuous  mediocrity  were  a  constant 
irritation  to  him. 

He  came  in  not  late  for  breakfast,  and  amused 
all  the  family  by  his  fun  and  good  humour. 

His  mother,  finite  delighted,  said  to  him  : 

"My  little  Pierre,  you  have  no  notion  how 
humorous  and  clever  you  can  be  when  you  choose." 

And  he  talked,  {uitling  things  in  a  witiv  way, 
find  making  them  laugh  by  ingenious  hits  at  their 

80 


Pierre  and  Jean 


friends.  Bcausirc  was  liis  l)Utt,  and  Mme.  l\.osé- 
niilly  a  lit  lie,  but  in  a  very  judicicnis  \va\',  n(jl  too 
spiteful.  And  he  tlunight  as  lie  looked  al  his 
brother  :  "  Stand  uj)  for  her,  you  mull.  You  may 
be  as  rich  as  you  please,  I  can  always  eclipse  you 
when  I  take  the  trouble." 

As  they  drank  their  coffee  he  said  to  his  father  : 

**  Are  you  going  out  in  the  Pearl  to-day  ?" 

"  No,  my  boy." 

"May  I  have  her  with  Jean  Bart?" 

"  To  be  sure,  as  long  as  you  like." 

lie  bought  a  good  cigar  at  the  first  tobacco- 
nist's and  went  down  to  the  quay  with  a  light  step. 
tie  glanced  up  at  the  sky,  which  was  clear  and 
luminous,  of  a  pale  blue,  freshly  swept  by  the  sea- 
breeze. 

Papagris,  the  boatman,  commonly  called  Jean 
Bart,  was  dozing  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  which 
he  was  required  to  have  in  readiness  every  day  at 
noon  when  they  had  not  been  out  fishing  in  the 
morning. 

"  You  and  I  together,  mate,"  cried  Pierre. 
He  went  down  the  iron  ladder  of  the  quay  and 
leaped  into  the  vessel. 

"  Which  way  is  the  wind  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Due  east  still,  M'sieu  Pierre.  A  fine  breeze 
out  at  sea." 

6  8i 


Pierre   aiul  ]e;in 

"  Well,  then,  old  man,  ofT  wc  o;o  !  " 

They  hoisted  the  foresail  and  weighed  anchor  ; 
and  the  boat,  feeling  iiersclf  free,  glided  slowly- 
down  towards  the  jetty  on  the  still  water  of  the 
harbour.  The  breath  of  wind  that  came  down  the 
streets  caught  the  top  of  the  sail  so  lightly  as  to  be 
imperceptible,  and  the  Pearl  seemed  endowed  with 
life — the  life  of  a  vessel  driven  on  by  a  mysterious 
latent  power.  Pierre  took  the  tiller,  and,  holding 
his  cigar  between  his  teeth,  he  stretched  his  legs  on 
the  bunk,  and  with  his  eyes  half-shut  in  the  blind- 
ing sunshine,  he  watched  the  great  tarred  timbers 
of  the  breakwater  as  they  glided  past. 

When  they  reached  the  open  sea,  round  the 
nose  of  the  north  pier  which  had  sheltered  them, 
the  fresher  breeze  puffed  in  the  doctor's  face  and 
on  his  hands,  like  a  somewhat  icy  caress,  filled  his 
chest,  which  rose  with  a  long  sigh  to  drink  it  in, 
and  swelling  the  tawny  sail,  tilted  the  Pearl  on  her 
beam  and  made  her  more  lively,  jean  Hart  hastily 
hauled  up  the  jib,  and  the  triangle  of  canvas,  full 
of  wind,  looked  like  a  wing  ;  then,  with  two  strides 
to  the  stern,  he  let  out  the  sjiinnaker,  which  was 
close-reefed  against  his  mast. 

Then,  along  the  hull  of  the  boat,  which  sud- 
denly heeled  over  and  was  running  at  top  speed, 
there  was  a  soft,  crisp  sound  of  water  hissing  and 


Pierre  and  jean 

rushing  past.  The  ])ro\v  rijipcd  up  the  sea  like 
tlie  share  of  a  plough  gcjne  mad,  and  ijie  yielding 
water  it  turned  up  eurlcd  over  and  fell  white  with 
foam,  as  the  ploughed  soil,  heavy  and  brown,  rolls 
and  falls  in  a  ridge.  At  each  wave  they  met — 
and  there  was  a  short,  chopping  sea — the  Pearl 
shivered  from  tiie  point  of  the  bowsprit  to  the 
rudder,  which  tremi)led  under  Pierre's  hand  ;  when 
the  wind  blew  harder  in  gusts,  the  swell  rose  to 
the  gunwale  as  if  it  would  overflow  into  the  boat. 
A  coal  brig  from  Liverpool  was  lying  at  anchor, 
waiting  for  the  tide  ;  they  made  a  sweep  round 
her  stern  and  went  to  look  at  each  of  the  vessels  in 
the  roads  one  after  another  ;  then  they  put  further 
out  to  look  at  the  unfolding  line  of  coast. 

For  three  hours  Pierre,  easy,  calm,  and  happy, 
wandered  to  and  fro  over  the  dancing  waters, 
guiding  the  thing  of  wood  and  canvas,  which 
came  and  went  at  his  will,  under  the  pressure  of 
his  hand,  as  if  it  were  a  swift  and  docile  winged 
creature. 

He  was  lost  in  day-dreams,  the  dreams  one  has 
on  horseback  or  on  the  deck  of  a  boat  ;  thinking 
of  his  future,  which  should  be  brilliant,  and  the 
joys  of  living  intelligently.  On  the  morrow  he 
would  ask  his  brother  to  lend  him  fifteen  hundred 
francs  for  three  months,  that  he  might  settle  at 

S3 


Pierre   and   ]e:in 

once  in  the  pretty  n^unis  on  the  lioiilevard  Fran- 
çois, i'^ 

Suddenly  tlic  sailor  said  :  "The  fog  is  coming 
iij\  M'sieu  Pierre.     We  must  go  in." 

lie  looked  up  and  saw  to  the  northward  a 
gray  shade,  filmy  but  dense,  blotting  out  the  sky 
and  covering  the  sea  ;  it  was  sweeping  down  on 
them  like  a  cloud  fallen  from  above.  lie  tacked 
for  land  and  made  for  the  j)ier,  scudding  before 
the  wind  and  followed  by  the  flying  fog,  which 
gained  upon  them.  When  it  reached  the  Pearl, 
wrapping  her  in  its  intangible  density,  a  cold  shud- 
der ran  over  Pierre's  limbs,  and  a  smell  of  smoke 
and  mould,  the  peculiar  smell  of  a  sea-fog,  made 
him  close  his  mouth  that  he  might  not  taste  the 
cold,  wet  vapour.  By  the  time  the  boat  was  at 
her  usual  moorings  in  the  harbour  the  whole  town 
was  buried  in  this  fme  mist,  which  ditl  not  fall  but 
yet  wetted  everything  like  rain,  and  glided  and 
rolled  along  the  roofs  and  streets  like  the  flow  of 
a  river.  Pierre,  with  his  hands  and  feet  frozen, 
made  haste  home  and  threw  himstlf  on  his  bed 
to  take  a  nap  till  dinner-time.  When  lie  made 
his  appearance  in  the  dining-room  his  mother  was 
saying  to  Jean  : 

"The  glass  corridor  will  l)e  lovelv.  We  will 
fdl  it  with  flowers.     Vou  will  see.     1  will  under- 

84 


Pierre  and  Jean 

take  to  care  for  them  and  renew  them.  When 
you  give  a  party  tlie  effect  will  he  (iiiite  fairy-like." 

"What  in  the  world  are  you  talking  about  ?" 
the  doctor  asked. 

"Of  a  deligiitful  apartment  I  have  just  taken 
for  your  brother.  It  is  quite  a  find  ;  an  entresol 
looking  out  on  two  streets.  There  are  two  draw- 
ing-rooms, a  glass  passage,  and  a  little  circular 
dining-room,  perfectly  charming  for  a  bachelor's 
quarters." 

Pierre  turned  pale.  His  anger  seemed  to  press 
on  his  heart. 

"Where  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"  Boulevard  François,  i^r." 

There  was  no  possibility  for  doubt.  He  took 
his  seat  in  such  a  state  of  exasperation  that  he 
longed  to  exclaim  :  "  This  is  really  too  much  !  Is 
there  nothing  for  any  one  but  him  ?" 

His  mother,  beaming,  went  on  talking  :  "  And 
only  fancy,  I  got  it  for  two  thousand  eight  hun- 
dred francs  a  year.  They  asked  three  thousand, 
but  I  got  a  reduction  of  two  hundred  francs  on 
taking  for  three,  six,  or  nine  years.  Your  brother 
will  be  delightfully  housed  there.  An  elegant 
home  is  enough  to  make  the  fortune  of  a  lawyer. 
It  attracts  clients,  charms  them,  holds  them  fast, 
commands  respect,  and  shows  them   that  a  man 

«5 


Pierre  and  Jean 


who  lives  in  such  good  stylo  expects  a  crood  price 
for  his  words." 

She   was  silent   for   a   few  seconds   ami    then 
went  on  : 

'•  We  must  look  out  for  something  suitable  for 
you;  much  less  pretentious,  since  you  have  noth- 
ing, but  nice  and  jiretty  all  llu'  same.  1  assure 
you  it  will  be  to  your  advantage." 
Pierre  replied  contemptuously  : 
*'  For  me  !  Oh,  I  shall  make  my  way  by  hard 
work  and  learning." 

But  his  mother  insisted  :  "  Ves,  but  I  assure 
you  that  to  be  well  lodged  will  be  of  use  to  you 
nevertheless." 

About  half-way  through  the  meal  he  suddenly 
asked  : 

'*  How  did  you  first  come  to  know  this  man 
Maréchal?" 

Old  Roland  looked  up  and  racked  his  memor)^: 
"Wait  a  bit  ;  I  scarcely  recollect.  It  is  such 
an  old  story  now.  Ah,  yes,  I  remember.  It  was 
your  mother  who  made  acquaintance  with  him  in 
the  shop,  was  it  not,  Louise?  He  first  came  to 
order  something,  and  then  he  called  frequently. 
We  knew  him  as  a  customer  before  we  knew  him 
as  a  friend." 

Pierre,  who  was  eating  beans,  sticking  his  fork 
86 


Pierre   and  Jean 


into  them  one  by  one  as  if  lie  were  spitting  them, 
went  on  : 

"And  when  was  it  tliat  you  made  liis  aequaint- 
ance  ?" 

Again  Roland  sat  thinking,  but  lie  eould  re- 
member no  more  and  appealed  to  his  wife's  better 
memory. 

"  In  what  year  was  it,  Louise  ?  You  surely 
have  not  forgotten,  you  who  remember  every- 
thing. Let  me  see — it  was  in — in — in  fifty-five  or 
fifty-six  ?  Try  to  remember.  You  ought  to  know 
better  than  L" 

She  did  in  fact  think  it  over  for  some  minutes, 
and  then  replied  in  a  steady  voice  and  with  calm 
decision  : 

"It  was  in  fifty-eight,  old  man.  Pierre  was 
three  years  old.  I  am  quite  sure  that  I  am  not 
mistaken,  for  it  was  in  that  year  that  the  child  had 
scarlet  fever,  and  Maréchal,  whom  we  knew  then 
but  very  little,  was  of  the  greatest  service  to  us." 

Roland  exclaimed  : 

"  To  be  sure — very  true  ;  he  was  really  invalu- 
able. When  your  mother  was  half-dead  with 
fatigue  and  I  had  to  attend  to  the  shop,  he  would 
go  to  the  chemist's  to  fetch  your  medicine.  He 
really  had  the  kindest  heart  !  And  when  you  were 
well  again,  you  cannot  think  how  glad  he  was  and 

87 


Pierre  and  |ciin 

iiow  he  pctlcd  you.  Il  was  fiuin  thai  time  lliat 
we  became  such  great  friends." 

And  this  tliought  rushed  into  Pierre's  soul,  as 
abrupt  and  violent  as  a  cannon-ball  rending  and 
piercing  it  :  "  Since  he  knew  nie  fust,  since  he  was 
so  devoted  to  me,  since  he  was  so  fond  of  me  and 
petted  me  so  much,  since  I — /  was  the  cause  of 
his  great  intimacy  with  my  parents,  why  did  he 
leave  all  his  money  to  my  brother  and  nothing  to 
me?" 

He  asked  no  more  questions  and  remained 
gloomy  ;  absent-minded  rather  than  thoughtful, 
feeling  in  his  soul  a  new  anxiety  as  yet  undefined, 
the  secret  germ  of  a  new  }iain. 

He  went  out  early,  wandering  about  the  streets 
once  more.  They  were  shrouded  in  the  fog  which 
made  the  night  heavy,  opaque,  and  nauseous.  It 
was  like  a  pestilential  cloud  dropped  on  the  earth. 
It  could  be  seen  swirling  past  the  gas-lights,  which 
it  seemed  to  put  out  at  intervals.  The  pavement 
was  as  slippery  as  on  a  frosty  night  after  rain,  and 
all  sorts  of  evil  smells  seemed  to  come  up  from  the 
bowels  of  the  houses — the  stench  of  cellars,  drains, 
sewers,  squalid  kitchens — to  mingle  with  the  hor- 
rible savour  of  this  wandering  fog. 

Pierre,  with  his  shoulders  up  and  his  hands  in 
his  j)Ockcts,  not  caring  to  remain  out  of  doors  in 


Pierre  and  Jean 


the  cold,  turned  into  Marowsko's.  The  druggist 
was  asleep  as  usual  under  the  gas-light,  which  kept 
watch.  On  recognising  Pierre,  for  whom  he  had 
tlie  affection  of  a  faithful  dog,  lie  shook  off  his 
drowsiness,  went  for  two  glasses,  and  brought  out 
the  Groseillcttc. 

"Well,"  said  the  doctor,  "  iiow  is  the  liqueur 
getting  on  ?  " 

The  Pole  explained  that  four  of  the  chief  cafés 
in  the  town  had  agreed  to  have  it  on  sale,  and  that 
two  papers,  tiie  NortJicoast  Pharos  and  the  Havre 
ScmapJiorc,  would  advertise  it,  in  return  for  cer- 
tain chemical  preparations  to  be  supj)lied  to  the 
editors. 

After  a  long  silence  Marowsko  asked  whether 
Jean  had  come  definitely  into  possession  of  his 
fortune  ;  and  then  he  put  two  or  three  other  ques- 
tions vaguely  referring  to  the  same  subject.  His 
jealous  devotion  to  Pierre  rebelled  against  this 
preference.  And  Pierre  felt  as  though  he  could 
hear  him  thinking  ;  he  guessed  and  understood, 
read  in  his  averted  eyes  and  in  the  hesitancy  of 
his  tone,  the  words  which  rose  to  his  lips  but 
were  not  spoken — which  the  druggist  was  too 
timid  or  too  prudent  and  cautious  to  utter. 

At  this  moment,  he  felt  sure,  the  old  man  was 
thinking  :  "  Vou  ought  not  to  have  suffered  him 

89 


Pierre   and  Jean 

to  accept  this  inhciilancc  which  will  make  jKuple 
speak  ill  of  your  mother." 

Perhaps,  indeed,  Marowsko  helievcd  that  Jean 
was  Maréchal's  son.  (  )f  course  he  helieved  it! 
How  could  he  helj^  believing-  il  when  the  thing 
must  seem  so  possible,  so  probable,  self-evident  ? 
Whv,  he  himself,  Pierre,  her  son — had  not  he  been 
for  these  three  days  past  lighting  with  all  the  sub- 
tlety at  his  command  to  cheat  his  reason,  fighting 
against  this  hideous  suspicion  ? 

And  suddenly  the  need  to  be  alone,  to  reflect, 
to  discuss  the  matter  with  himself — to  face  boldly, 
without  scruple  or  weakness,  this  possible  but 
monstrous  thing — came  upon  him  anew,  and  so 
imperative  that  he  rose  without  even  drinking 
his  glass  of  Gi'oscilUttc,  shook  hands  with  the 
astounded  druggist,  and  j^lunged  out  into  the  fog- 
gy streets  again. 

He  asked  himself  :  "  What  made  this  Marcehal 
leave  all  his  fortune  to  Jean  ?" 

It  was  not  jealousv  now  which  made  him  dwill 
on  tiiis  question,  not  the  rather  mean  but  natural 
envy  which  he  knew  linked  within  him,  and  with 
which  he  had  been  struggling  these  three  days,  but 
the  dread  of  an  overpoweiiiig  horror;  the  dread 
that  he  himself  should  believe  that  Jean,  his  brother, 
was  that  man's  son. 

90 


Pierre  and  Jean 

No.  Ile  (litl  not  believe  it  ;  he  could  not 
even  ask  himself  the  question  which  was  a  crime  ! 
Meanwhile  he  must  get  rid  of  this  faint  suspicion, 
improbable  as  it  was,  utterly  and  forever.  He 
craved  for  light,  for  certainty — he  must  win  abso- 
lute security  in  his  heart,  for  he  loved  no  one  in 
the  world  but  his  mother.  And  as  he  wandered 
alone  through  the  darkness  he  would  rack  his 
memory  and  his  reason  with  a  minute  search  that 
should  bring  out  the  blazing  truth.  Then  there 
would  be  an  end  to  the  matter  ;  he  would  not 
think  of  it  again — never.     He  would  go  and  sleep. 

He  argued  thus  :  "  Let  me  see  :  first  to  examine 
the  facts  ;  then  I  will  recall  all  I  know  about  him, 
his  behaviour  to  my  brother  and  to  me.  I  will 
seek  out  the  causes  which  might  have  given  rise  to 
this  preference.  He  knew  Jean  from  his  birth? 
Yes,  but  he  had  known  me  first.  If  he  had  loved 
my  mother  silently,  unselfishly,  he  would  surely 
have  chosen  me,  since  it  was  through  me,  through 
my  scarlet  fever,  that  he  became  so  intimate  with 
my  parents.  Logically,  then,  he  ought  to  have 
preferred  me,  to  have  had  a  keener  affection  for  mc 
— unless  it  were  that  he  felt  an  instinctive  attrac- 
tion and  predilection  for  my  brother  as  he  watched 
him  grow  up." 

Then,  with  desperate  tension  of  brain  and  of  all 
91 


Pierre   and  Jean 

the  powers  of  his  inlellect,  lie  strove  to  reconstitute 
from  memory  the  imati^c  of  this  Mart-chal,  to  sec 
him,  to  know  him,  to  penetrate  the  man  wliom  he 
had  seen  pass  by  him,  indifferent  to  his  heart  dur- 
ing all  those  years  in  Paris. 

But  lie  perceived  that  the  slight  exertion  of 
walking  somewhat  disturbed  his  ideas,  dislocated 
their  continuity,  weakened  their  precision,  clouded 
his  recollection.  To  enable  him  to  look  at  the 
past  and  at  unknown  events  with  so  keen  an  eye 
that  nothing  should  escape  it,  he  must  be  motion- 
less in  a  vast  and  empty  space.  And  he  made  up 
his  mind  to  go  and  sit  on  the  jetty  as  he  had  done 
that  other  night.  As  he  approached  the  harbour 
he  heard,  out  at  sea,  a  lugubrious  and  sinister  wail 
like  the  bellowing  of  a  bull,  l)Ut  niore  long-drawn 
and  steady.  It  was  the  roar  of  a  fog-horn,  the  cry 
of  a  ship  lost  in  the  fog.  A  shiver  ran  through 
him,  chilling  his  heart  ;  so  deeply  did  this  cry  of 
distress  thrill  his  soul  and  nerves  that  he  felt  as  if 
he  had  uttered  it  himself.  Another  and  a  similar 
voice  answered  with  such  another  moan,  but  far- 
ther away  ;  then,  close  by,  the  fog-horn  on  the 
I)icr  gave  out  a  fearful  sound  in  answer.  Pierre 
made  for  the  jetty  with  long  steps,  thinking  no 
more  of  anything,  content  to  walk  on  into  this 
ominous  and  bellowing  darkness. 

93 


Pierre  and  Jean 


When  he  liad  seated  himself  at  the  end  of  the 
breakwater  he  closed  iiis  eyes,  that  he  mi^dit  not 
sec  the  two  electric  lights,  now  blurred  by  the 
fog,  which  make  the  harbour  accessible  at  night, 
and  the  red  glare  of  the  light  on  the  south  pier, 
which  was,  however,  scarcely  visible.  Turning 
half-round,  he  rested  his  elbows  on  the  granite 
and  hid  his  face  in  his  hands. 

Though  he  did  not  pronounce  the  word  with 
his  lij)s,  his  mind  kept  repeating  :  "  Maréchal — 
Maréchal,"  as  if  to  raise  and  challenge  the  shade. 
And  on  the  black  background  of  his  closed  eye- 
lids, he  suddenly  saw  him  as  he  had  known  him  : 
a  man  of  about  sixty,  with  a  white  beard  cut  in  a 
point  and  very  thick  eyebrows,  also  white.  He 
was  neither  tall  nor  short,  his  manner  was  pleas- 
ant, his  eyes  gray  and  soft,  his  movements  gentle, 
his  whole  appearance  that  of  a  good  fellow,  simple 
and  kindly.  He  called  Pierre  and  Jean  "  my  dear 
children,"  and  had  never  seemed  to  prefer  either, 
asking  them  both  together  to  dine  with  him.  And 
then  Pierre,  with  the  pertinacity  of  a  dog  seeking 
a  lost  scent,  tried  to  recall  the  words,  gestures, 
tones,  looks,  of  this  man  who  had  vanished  from 
the  world.  By  degrees  he  saw  him  quite  clearly 
in  his  rooms  in  the  Rue  Tronchet,  where  he  re- 
ceived his  brother  and  himself  at  dinner. 

93 


Pierre   and  jean 

lie  was  waiifd  on  l>y  two  maids,  holh  old 
women  who  had  bc-cii  in  the  habit — a  very  old 
one,  no  doubt — of  saying  "  Monsieur  Pierre"  and 
"Monsieur  jevUi."  Mareehal  would  hold  out  both 
hands,  tiie  right  hand  to  one  of  the  young  nun, 
the  left  to  the  other,  as  they  haj)i)ened  to  come  in. 

"  IIow  are  you,  my  children?"  he  would  say. 
"Have  you  any  news  of  your  jiarcnts  ?  As  for 
mc,  they  never  write  to  me." 

The  talk  was  quiet  and  intimate,  of  common- 
place matters.  There  was  nothing  remarkable  in 
the  man's  mind,  but  much  that  was  winning, 
charming,  and  gracious.  He  had  certainly  been 
a  good  friend  to  them,  one  of  those  good  friends 
of  whom  we  think  the  less  because  wc  feel  sure 
of  them. 

Now,  reminiscences  came  readily  to  Pierre's 
mind.  Having  seen  him  anxious  from  time  to 
time,  and  suspecting  his  student's  impecunious- 
ness,  Maréchal  had  of  his  own  accord  oiïered  and 
lent  him  money,  a  few  hundred  francs  perhaps, 
forgotten  by  both,  and  never  repaid.  Then  this 
man  must  always  have  l>een  fond  of  him,  always 
liavc  taken  an  interest  in  iiini,  since  he  thoULiht 
of  his  needs.  Well  then— well  then— why  leave 
his  whole  fortune  to  Jean  ?  No,  he  had  never 
shown  any  more  marked  afTection  for  the  younger 

94 


Pierre   and  Jean 


than  for  (lie  elder,  had  never  been  more  interested 
in  one  than  in  the  other,  or  seemed  to  care  more 
tenderly  for  this  one  or  that  one.  Well  then — 
well  then — he  must  have  had  some  strong  secret 
reason  for  leaving  everything  to  Jean — everything 
— and  nothing  to  Pierre. 

The  more  he  thought,  the  more  he  recalled  the 
past  few  years,  the  more  extraordinary,  the  more 
incredible  was  it  that  he  should  have  made  such  a 
difTercncc  between  them.  And  an  agonizing  pang 
of  unspeakable  anguish  piercing  his  bosom  made 
his  heart  beat  like  a  fluttering  rag.  Its  springs 
seemed  broken,  and  the  blood  rushed  through  in  a 
flood,  unchecked,  tossing  it  with  wild  surges. 

Then  in  an  undertone,  as  a  man  speaks  in  a 
nightmare,  he  muttered  :  "I  must  know.  My 
God  !    I  must  know." 

He  looked  further  back  now,  to  an  earlier 
time,  when  his  parents  had  lived  in  Paris.  But 
the  faces  escaped  him,  and  this  confused  his  recol- 
lections. He  struggled  above  all  to  see  Maréchal, 
with  light,  or  brown,  or  black  hair.  But  he  could 
not  ;  the  later  image,  his  face  as  an  old  man, 
blotted  out  all  others.  However,  he  remembered 
that  he  had  been  slighter,  and  had  a  soft  hand,  and 
that  he  often  brought  flowers.  Veiy  often — for 
his  father  would  constantly  say  ;  "  What,  another 

95 


Pierre  aiul  ]can 

bouquet  !  But  this  is  madness,  my  dear  fellow  ; 
you  will  ruin  yourself  in  roses."  And  Maréchal 
would  sav  :    "  No  matter  ;   I  like  it." 

And  suddenly  his  mother's  voice  and  accent, 
his  mother's  as  she  smiled  and  said:  "Thank  you, 
mv  kind  friiMul,"  Hashed  on  his  brain,  so  clearly 
that  he  couKl  have  believed  he  heard  her.  She 
must  have  spoken  those  words  very  often  that 
they  should  remain  thus  graven  on  her  son's 
memory. 

So  Maréchal  brought  flowers  ;  he,  the  gentle- 
man, the  rich  man,  the  customer,  to  the  humble 
shop-keeper,  the  jeweller's  wife.  Mad  he  loved 
her?  Why  should  he  have  made  friends  with 
these  tradespeople  if  he  had  not  been  in  love  with 
the  wife?  He  was  a  man  of  education  and  fairly 
refmed  tastes.  How  many  a  time  had  he  discussed 
poets  and  poetry  with  Pierre.  He  did  not  appre- 
ciate these  writers  from  an  artistic  point  of  view, 
but  with  sympathetic  antl  responsive  feeling.  The 
doctor  had  often  smiled  at  his  emotions  which  had 
struck  him  as  rather  silly,  now  he  plainly  saw  that 
this  sentimental  soul  could  never,  never  have  been 
the  friend  of  his  father,  who  was  so  matter-of-fact, 
so  narrow,  so  heavy,  to  whom  the  word  "  Poetry  " 
meant  idiocy. 

This    Maréciial    \\\cu,  Ixing   young,  dec,  rich, 


Pierre   and    Jean 

ready  for  any  form  of  k'lulcrncss,  went  by  cliancc 
into  tlic  sliop  one  day,  having  perhaps  observed  its 
pretty  mistress.  lie  liad  l)ou_L,dit  something,  liad 
come  again,  had  chatted,  moie  intimately  eaeli 
time,  paying  by  frequent  purciiases  for  the  right  of 
a  seat  in  the  family,  of  smiling  at  the  young  wife 
and  shaking  hands  with  the  husl)and. 

And  what  next — what  next — good  God — what 
next  ? 

He  had  loved  and  petted  the  fust  child,  the 
jeweller's  child,  till  the  second  was  born  ;  then, 
till  death,  he  had  remained  impenetrable  ;  and 
when  his  grave  was  closed,  his  flesh  dust,  his 
name  erased  from  the  list  of  the  living,  when  he 
himself  was  quiet  and  forever  gone,  having  noth- 
ing to  scheme  for,  to  dread  or  to  hide,  he  had 
given  his  whole  fortune  to  the  second  child  ! 
Why? 

The  man  had  all  his  wits  ;  he  must  have  under- 
stood and  foreseen  that  he  might,  that  he  almost 
infallibly  must,  give  grounds  for  the  supposition 
that  the  child  was  his.  He  was  casting  obloquy  on 
a  woman.  I  low  could  he  have  done  this  if  Jean 
were  not  his  son  ? 

And  suddenly  a  clear  and  fearful  recollection 
shot  through  his  brain.  Maréchal  was  fair — fair 
like  Jean.  He  now  remembered  a  little  miniature 
7  9; 


Pierre   aiul  Jean 

j^ortrait  lie  luul  seen  foi  incih'  in  I\iiis,  on  (lie 
drawing-room  chinincv-slulf,  and  wliirli  had  since 
disappeared.  Wluio  was  it?  Lost,  oi-  hidden 
awav  ?  Oh,  if  he  could  hut  have  il  in  his  hand  for 
one  minute  !  I  lis  motluM' k([)t  it  jxrhips  in  the 
unconfcsscd  drawer  where  lo\e-tokens  were  treas- 
ured. 

His  misery  at  this  thought  was  so  intense  that 
he  uttered  a  groan,  one  of  those  brief  moans  wrung 
from  the  breast  by  a  too  intolerable  pang.     And  i 

immediately,  as  if  it  had  heard  him,  as  if  it  had  Î 

understood  and  answered  him,  the  fog-horn  on  the 
\)\cr  bellowed  out  close  to  him.  Its  voice,  like 
that  of  a  fiendish  monster,  more  resonant  than 
thunder — a  savage  and  appalling  roar  contrived 
to  drown  the  clamour  of  the  wind  and  waves — 
spread  through  the  darkness,  across  the  sea,  which  i 

was  invisible  under  its  shroud  of  fog.     And  again,  ' 

through  the  mist,  far  and  near,  responsive  cries 
went  up  to  the  night.  They  were  terrifying,  these 
calls  given  forth  by  the  great  blind  steam-ships.  j 

Then  all  was  silent  once  more.  j 

Pierre    had  opened  his  evc-s  and  was  looking  j 

about  him,  startled    to  find   himself  here,  roused  ! 

from  his  nightmare. 

"  I  am  mad,"  thought  he,  "  I  suspect  my 
mother."     And  a  surge  of  love  and  emotion,  of 

98 


Pierre   and   jean 

repentance,  and  prayer,  and  p^ricf,  welled  up  in  his 
heart.  Mis  mother  !  Knowing  her  as  he  knew 
her,  how  could  he  ever  iiave  suspected  lier?  Was 
not  the  soul,  was  not  the  life  of  this  simple-minded, 
chaste,  and  loyal  woman  clearer  than  water? 
Could  any  one  who  had  seen  and  known  her  ever 
think  of  her  hut  as  above  suspicion  ?  And  he,  her 
son,  had  doubted  her  !  Oh,  if  he  could  but  have 
taken  her  in  his  arms  at  that  moment,  how  he 
would  have  kissed  and  caressed  her,  and  gone  on 
his  knees  to  crave  pardon. 

Would  she  have  deceived  his  father — she  ? 

His  father  ! — A  very  worthy  man,  no  doubt, 
upright  and  honest  in  business,  but  with  a  mind 
which  had  never  gone  beyond  the  horizon  of  his 
shop.  How  was  it  that  this  woman,  who  must 
have  been  very  pretty — as  he  knew,  and  it  could 
still  be  seen — gifted,  too,  with  a  delicate,  tender, 
emotional  soul,  could  have  accepted  a  man  so  un- 
like herself  as  a  suitor  and  a  husband  ?  ^Vhy 
inquire  ?  She  had  married,  as  young  French  girls 
do  marry,  the  youth  with  a  little  fortune  proposed 
to  her  by  their  relations.  They  had  settled  at 
once  in  their  shop  in  the  Rue  Montmartre  ;  and 
the  young  wife,  ruling  over  the  desk,  inspired  by 
the  feeling  of  a  new  home,  and  the  subtle  and 
sacred  sense  of  interests  in  common  which  fills 

99 


Pierre  and  Jean 

tlic  place  of  lovo,  and  even  of  rcp^ard,  l)y  the  do- 
mestic hearth  of  most  of  the  coniimicial  liouses 
of  Paris,  liad  set  to  wuriv,  with  all  Ik  r  superior 
and  active  intelligence,  to  make  the  fortune  they 
hoped  for.  And  so  her  life  had  (lowed  on,  uni- 
form, peaceful  and  respectable,  but  loveless. 

Loveless? — was  it  possible  then  that  a  woman 
should  not  love  ?  That  a  young  and  pretty  woman, 
living  in  Paris,  reading  books,  apj)lauding  actresses 
for  dying  of  passion  on  the  stage,  could  live  from 
youth  to  old  age  without  once  feeling  her  heart 
touched?  He  would  not  believe  it  of  any  one 
else  ;  why  should  she  be  different  from  all  others, 
though  she  was  his  mother? 

She  had  been  young,  with  all  the  poetic  weak- 
nesses which  agitate  the  heart  of  a  young  creature. 
Shut  up,  imprisoned  in  the  shop,  by  the  side  of  a 
vuljiar  husband  who  alwavs  talked  of  trade,  she  had 
dreamed  of  moonlight  nights,  of  voyages,  of  kisses 
exchanged  in  the  shades  of  evening.  And  then, 
one  day  a  man  had  come  in,  as  lovers  do  in  books, 
and  had  talked  as  they  talk. 

She  had  loved  him.  Why  not  ?  She  was  his 
mother.  What  then  ?  Must  a  man  be  blind  and 
stupid  to  the  point  of  rejecting  evidence  because 
it  concerns  his  mother?  But  did  she  give  her- 
self to  him  ?     Why  yes,  since  this  man  had  had  no 

I  GO 


Pierre  and  Jean 

other  love,  since  lie  luid  remained  failiiful  to  her 
when  she  was  far  away  and  p^rowin^^  old.  Why 
yes,  since  he  had  left  all  his  fortune  to  his  son — 
their  son  ! 

And  Piirre  started  to  his  feet,  quivering  with 
sueh  rage  that  he  longed  to  kill  some  one.  Willi 
his  arm  outstretched,  his  hand  wide  oi)en,  lie 
wanted  to  hit,  to  bruise,  to  smash,  to  strangle  ! 
Whom  ?  Every  one  ;  his  father,  his  brother,  the 
dead  man,  his  mother  ! 

He  hurried  off  homeward.  What  was  he  going 
to  do  ? 

As  he  passed  a  turret  close  to  the  signal  mast 
the  strident  howl  of  the  fog-horn  went  off  in  his 
very  face.  He  was  so  startled  that  he  nearly  fell, 
and  shrank  back  as  far  as  the  granite  parapet.  He 
sat  down  half-stunned  by  the  sudden  shock.  The 
steamer  which  was  the  first  to  reply  seemed  to  be 
quite  near  and  was  already  at  the  entrance,  the  tide 
having  risen. 

Pierre  turned  round  and  could  discern  its  red 
eye  dim  through  the  fog.  Then,  in  the  broad 
light  of  the  electric  lanterns,  a  huge  black  shadow 
crept  up  between  the  piers.  Behind  him  the  voice 
of  the  look-out  man,  the  hoarse  voice  of  an  old  re- 
tired sea-captain,  shouted  : 

••What  ship?"     And  out  of  the  fog  the  voice 

lOI 


I'^icrrc   and   ]can 

of  I  Ik-  pilot  staiulin»^^  on  deck — nut  less  hoarse — 
replied  : 

"  The  Santa  Lucia." 
"  Where  from  ?" 
"  Italy." 
"What  port?" 
••  Naples." 

And  before  Pierre's  bewildered  eyes  rose,  as  he 
fancied,  the  fiery  pennon  of  W-suvius,  while,  at  the 
foot  of  the  volcano,  lire-llies  danced  in  the  orange- 
groves  of  Sorrento  or  Castellamare.  How  often 
had  he  dreamed  of  these  familiar  names  as  if  he 
knew  the  scenery.  Oh,  if  he  might  but  go  away, 
now  at  once,  never  mind  whither,  and  never  come 
back,  never  write,  never  let  any  one  know  what 
had  become  of  him  !  But  no,  he  must  go  home — 
home  to  his  father's  house,  and  go  to  bed. 

He  would  not.  Come  what  might  he  would 
not  go  in  ;  he  would  stay  there  till  daybreak.  He 
liked  the  roar  of  the  fog-horns.  He  pulled  him- 
self together  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down  like 
an  ofTiccr  on  watch. 

Another  vessel  was  coming  in  bcliind  the 
other,  huge  and  mysterious.  An  Knglish  India- 
man,  homeward  bound. 

He  saw  several  more  come  in,  one  after  an- 
other, out  of  the  impenetrable  vapour.     Tiien,  as 

102 


Pierre  and  Jean 

tiic  damp  became  (iiiilc  iiilolciahlc,  Picirc  set  out 
towards  the  town.  Ile  was  so  e(jld  tlial  he  went 
into  a  sailors'  tavern  to  drink  a  glass  of  grog,  and 
when  the  hot  and  pungent  licjuor  had  seorehed  his 
mouth  and  throat  he  felt  a  hope  revive  wilhiii 
him. 

Perhaps  he  was  mistaken.  He  knew  his  own 
vagabond  unreason  so  well  !  No  doubt  he  was 
mistaken.  He  had  piled  up  the  evidence  as  a 
charge  is  drawn  up  against  an  innocent  person, 
whom  it  is  always  so  easy  to  convict  when  we  wish 
to  think  him  guilty.  When  he  should  have  slept 
he  would  tliink  difïerently. 

Then  he  went  in  and  to  bed,  and  by  sheer  force 
of  will  he  at  last  dropped  asleep. 


103 


CHAPTER   V 

But  the  doctor's  frame  lay  scarcely  more  than 
an  hour  or  two  in  the  torpor  of  troubled  slum- 
bers. When  he  awoke  in  the  darkness  of  his 
warm,  closed  room,  he  was  aware,  even  before 
thought  was  awake  in  him,  of  the  painful  oppres- 
sion, the  sickness  of  heart  which  the  sorrow  wc 
have  slept  on  leaves  behind  it.  It  is  as  though 
the  disaster  of  which  the  shock  merely  jarred  us 
at  first,  had,  during  sleep,  stolen  into  our  very 
flesh,  bruising  and  exhausting  it  like  a  fever. 
Memory  returned  to  him  like  a  blow,  and  he  sat 
up  in  bed.  Then  slowly,  one  by  one,  he  again 
went  through  all  the  arguments  which  had  wrung 
his  heart  on  the  jetty  while  the  fog-horns  were 
bellowing.  The  more  he  thought  the  less  he 
doubted.  He  felt  himself  dragged  along  by  his 
logic  to  the  inevitable  certainty,  as  by  a  clutching, 
strangling  hand. 

lie  was  tliirsty  and  hot,  his  heart  beat  wildly. 
He  got  up  to  open  his  window  and  Ijrcatiie  the 
fresh  air,  and   as  he  stood   there  a  low  sound   fell 

1 04 


Pierre  and  Jean 


on  liis  car  througli  ihc  wall.  Jean  was  sleeping 
peacefully,  and  gently  snoring.  He  could  sleep! 
He  had  no  presentiment,  no  suspicions!  A  man 
wiio  had  known  their  mother  had  left  him  all  his 
fortune  ;  he  took  the  money  and  thought  it  quite 
fair  and  natural  !  He  was  sleeping,  rich  and  con- 
tented, not  knowing  that  his  brother  was  gasping 
with  anguish  and  distress.  And  rage  boiled  up  in 
him  against  this  heedless  and  happy  sleeper. 

Only  yesterday  he  would  have  knocked  at  his 
door,  have  gone  in,  and  sitting  by  the  bed,  would 
have  said  to  Jean,  scared  by  the  sudden  waking  : 

"Jean,  you  must  not  keep  this  legacy  which 
by  to-morrow  may  have  brought  suspicion  and 
dishonour  on  our  mother." 

But  to-day  he  could  say  nothing  ;  he  could  not 
tell  Jean  that  he  did  not  believe  him  to  be  their 
father's  son.  Now  he  must  guard,  must  bury  the 
shame  he  had  discovered,  hide  from  every  eye  the 
stain  which  he  had  detected  and  which  no  one 
must  perceive,  not  even  his  brother — especially 
not  his  brother. 

He  no  longer  thought  about  the  vain  respect 
of  public  opinion.  He  would  have  been  glad  that 
all  the  world  should  accuse  his  mother  if  only  he, 
he  alone,  knew  her  to  be  innocent  !  How  could 
he  bear  to  live  with  her  every  day,  believing  as  he 

105 


Pierre   and   jean 


looked  at  Ikt  lluit  his  hrulhcr  was  the  lIuKI  uf  a 
stranger's  lo\  c  ? 

And  how  cahn  and  serene  she  was,  ne\'eil lie- 
less,  how  sure  of  lierself  she  always  seemed  ! 
Was  it  possible  that  sueh  a  woman  as  she,  pure 
of  soul  and  upright  in  heart,  should  fall,  dragged 
astray  hv  passion,  and  yet  nothing  ever  apj)car 
afterward  of  her  remorse  and  the  stings  of  a 
troubled  conscience  ?  Ah,  hut  remorse  must  have 
tortured  her,  long  ago  in  the  earlier  days,  and 
then  have  faded  out,  as  everything  fades.  She 
had  surely  bewailed  her  sin,  and  then,  little  by 
little,  had  almost  forgotten  it.  Have  not  all 
women,  all,  this  fault  of  prodigious  forgetfulness 
which  enables  them,  after  a  few  years,  hardly  to 
recognise  the  man  to  whose  kisses  they  have 
given  their  lips?  The  kiss  strikes  like  a  thunder- 
bolt, the  love  passes  away  like  a  storm,  and  then 
life,  like  the  sky,  is  calm  once  more,  and  begins 
again  as  it  was  before.  Do  we  ever  remember  a 
cloud  ? 

Pierre  could  no  longer  endure  to  stay  in  the 
room  !  This  house,  his  father's  house,  crushed 
him.  He  felt  the  roof  weigh  on  liis  head,  and  the 
walls  sufTocatc  him.  And  as  he  was  very  thirsty 
he  lighted  his  candle  (o  go  to  drink  a  glass  of 
fresh  water  from  the  Idler  in  the  kitchen. 

106 


Pierre  and  Jean 


He  went  down  the  two  flights  of  stairs  ;  then, 
as  he  was  coming  uj)  again  with  the  water-bottle 
filled,  he  sat  down,  in  his  night-shirt,  on  a  stej)  of 
the  stairs  where  there  was  a  draught,  and  drank, 
without  a  tumbler,  in  long  pulls  like  a  runner  who 
is  out  of  breath.  When  he  ceased  to  move  the  si- 
lence of  the  house  touched  his  feelings  ;  then,  one 
by  one,  he  could  distinguish  the  faintest  sounds. 
First  there  was  the  ticking  of  the  clock  in  the 
dining-room  which  seemed  to  grow  louder  every 
second.  Then  he  heard  another  snore,  an  old 
man's  snore,  short,  laboured,  and  hard,  his  father 
beyond  doubt  ;  and  he  writhed  at  the  idea,  as  if  it 
had  but  this  moment  sprung  upon  him,  that  these 
two  men,  sleeping  under  the  same  roof — father 
and  son — were  nothing  to  each  other  !  Not  a  tie, 
not  the  very  slightest,  bound  them  together,  and 
they  did  not  know  it  !  They  spoke  to  each  other 
affectionately,  they  embraced  each  other,  they 
rejoiced  and  lamented  together  over  the  same 
things,  just  as  if  the  same  blood  flowed  in  their 
veins.  And  two  men  born  at  opposite  ends  of 
the  earth  could  not  be  more  alien  to  each  other 
than  this  father  and  son.  They  believed  they 
loved  each  other,  because  a  lie  had  grown  up  be- 
tween them.  This  paternal  love,  this  filial  love, 
were  the  outcome  of  a  lie — a  lie  which  could  not 

107 


Pierre   and   jean 


be  unmasked,  and  whieli  no  one  would  ever  know 
but  lie,  the  true  son. 

Hut  yet,  but  }et — if  he  were  mistaken  ?  How 
could  he  make  sure  ?  (  )h,  if  only  some  likeness, 
however  slight,  could  be  traced  between  his  father 
and  Jian,  one  of  those  mysterious  resemblances 
which  lun  fioni  an  ancestor  to  tiie  L,n'eat-<j;;reat- 
grandson,  showing  that  the  whole  race  are  the  ofT- 
spring  of  the  same  embrace.  To  him,  a  medical 
man,  so  little  would  sufTice  to  enable  him  to  dis- 
cern this — the  curve  of  a  nostril,  the  space  between 
the  eyes,  the  character  of  the  teeth  or  hair  ;  nay 
less — a  gesture,  a  trick,  a  habit,  an  inherited  taste, 
any  mark  or  token  which  a  practised  eye  might 
recognise  as  characteristic. 

He  thought  long,  but  could  remember  noth- 
ing ;  no,  nothing.  Dut  he  had  looked  carelessly, 
observed  badly,  having  no  reason  for  spying  such 
imperceptible  indications. 

He  got  up  to  go  back  to  his  room  and  mounted 
the  stairs  with  a  slow  step,  still  lost  in  thought. 
As  he  passed  the  door  of  his  brother's  room  he 
stood  stock  still,  his  hand  put  out  to  open  it.  An 
imperative  need  had  just  come  over  him  to  see 
Jean  at  once,  to  look  at  him  al  his  leisure,  to  sur- 
prise iiim  in  his  sleep,  while  the  calm  countenance 
and   rela.xed   features  were  at  rest  and  all  the  gri- 

io8 


I^ierrc   and   |can 

mace  of  life  pul  off.  Tliiis  lie  iniirht  catch  tlic 
(lornianl  secret  of  his  physiognomy,  and  if  any 
appreciable  Hkcncss  existed  it  wouhl  not  escape 
liim. 

But  supposinu^  Jean  were  to  wake,  what  could 
he  say?     IIow  could  he  exi)lain  this  intrusion? 

He  stood  still,  his  fingers  clinclied  on  tiie 
door-handle,  trying  to  devise  a  reason,  an  excuse. 
Then  he  remembered  that  a  week  ago  he  had  lent 
his  brother  a  j)hial  of  laudanum  to  relieve  a  fit  of 
toothache.  He  might  himself  have  been  in  pain 
this  night  and  have  come  to  find  the  drug.  So  he 
went  in  with  a  stealthy  step,  like  a  robber.  Jean, 
his  mouth  open,  was  sunk  in  deep,  animal  slum- 
bers. His  beard  and  fair  hair  made  a  golden  patch 
on  the  white  linen  ;  he  did  not  wake,  but  he  ceased 
snoring. 

Pierre,  leaning  over  him,  gazed  at  him  with 
hungry  eagerness.  No,  this  youngster  was  not  in 
the  least  like  Roland  ;  and  for  the  second  time  the 
recollection  of  the  little  portrait  of  Maréchal, 
which  had  vanished,  recurred  to  his  mind.  He 
must  find  it  !  When  he  should  sec  it  perhaps  he 
should  cease  to  doubt  ! 

His  brother  stirred,  conscious  no  doubt  of  a 
presence,  or  disturbed  by  the  light  of  the  taper  on 

his  eyelids.     The  doctor  retired  on  tip-toe  to  the 

109 


PiLire   iiiul    jean 

door  which  lie  noiselessly  closed  ;  ihcn  lir  wcmU 
back  to  his  room,  \n\l  not  to  bed  aj^ain. 

Day  was  lon<^^  in  coming  Tlic  hours  struck 
one  after  anollicr  on  the  (linin<:::-rooni  clock,  and 
its  tone  was  a  cki'i)  antl  solemn  one,  as  though 
the  little  piece  of  clockwork  had  swallowed  a 
cathcdral-bell.  The  sound  rose  through  the  empty 
staircase,  penetrating  through  walls  and  doors,  and 
dying  away  in  the  rooms  where  it  fell  on  the  tor- 
pid ears  of  the  sleeping  household.  Pierre  had 
taken  to  walking  to  and  fro  between  his  bed  and 
the  window.  What  was  he  going  to  do?  He 
was  too  much  upset  to  spend  this  day  at  home. 
He  wanted  still  to  be  alone,  at  any  rate  till  the 
next  day,  to  reflect,  to  compose  himself,  to 
strengthen  himself  for  the  common  every-day  life 
which  he  must  take  up  again. 

Well,  he  would  go  over  to  Trouvillc  to  see  the 
swarming  crowd  on  the  sands.  That  wouKl  anuisc 
him,  change  the  air  of  his  thoughts,  and  give  him 
lime  to  inure  himself  to  the  horrible  thing  he  had 
discovered.  As  soon  as  morning  dawned  he  made 
iiis  toilet  and  dressed.  The  fog  had  vanished  and 
it  was  fine,  very  fine.  As  the  boat  for  Trou\ille 
did  not  start  till  nine,  it  struck  the  doctor  that  he 
must  greet  his  mother  before  starting. 

He  waited   till  the   lioiir  at  which   she  was  ac- 

IIO 


Pierre   and  Jean 


customed  io  ^c't  up,  and  lluii  wciil  down-slairs. 
Ilis  licarl  beat  so  violently  as  he  touclicd  li<  i-  dnor 
that  he  j)ause(l  for  hrcall).  Ilis  hand  as  it  lay  on 
the  lock  was  limp  and  tremulous,  almost  incapahle 
of  the  slight  effort  of  turning  the  handle  to  ojK-n 
it.     He  knocked.     His  mother's  voice  inquired: 

"Who  is  there?" 

"  I— Pierre." 

"What  do  you  want  ?" 

"  Only  to  say  good-morning,  because  I  am 
going  to  spend  the  day  at  Trouviilc  with  some 
friends." 

"  But  I  am  still  in  bed." 

"  Very  well,  do  not  disturb  yourself.  I  shall 
see  you  this  evening,  when  I  come  in." 

He  hoped  to  get  off  without  seeing  her,  with- 
out pressing  on  her  cheek  the  false  kiss  which  it 
made  his  heart  sick  to  think  of.     But  she  replied  : 

"  No.  Wait  a  moment.  I  will  let  you  in. 
Wait  till  I  get  into  bed  again." 

He  heard  her  bare  feet  on  the  floor  and  the 
sound  of  the  bolt  drawn  back.  Then  she  called 
out  : 

"Come  in." 

He  went  in.  She  was  sitting  up  in  bed,  while, 
by  her  side,  Roland,  with  a  silk  handkerchief  by 
way  of  night-cap  and  his  face  to  the  wall,  still  lay 

III 


Pierre   and    )can 

sleeping:.  NothiiiL::  vvvv  wola-  liim  luit  a  ^Iiakini^ 
hard  enough  to  i)iill  his  aim  cff.  (  )n  tlic  days 
when  lie  went  lisliiui^  il  was  j()sc|)liiiR',  iuiil,''  uj) 
by  Papagris  at  the  lioiir  IimhI,  who  ruused  Ikt 
master  from  liis  stul)l)()in  shiiiduMS. 

Pierre,  as  he  went  towards  his  niotiier,  looked 
at  her  with  a  sudden  sense  of  never  having  seen 
her  before.  She  hcKl  uj)  her  faee,  he  kissed  each 
cheek,  and  then  sat  down  in  a  low  ehair. 

"It  was  last  eveniiiG^  that  you  decided  on  this 
excursion  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  last  evening." 

"Will  you  return  to  dinner?" 

"  I  do  not  know.  At  any  rate  do  not  wait 
for  me." 

He  looked  at  her  with  stupehed  curiosity. 
This  woman  was  his  mother  !  All  those  features, 
seen  daily  from  childhood,  from  the  time  when 
his  eye  could  first  distinguish  things,  that  smile, 
that  voice — so  well  known,  so  familiar — abrujitly 
struck  him  as  new,  difTerent  from  what  thev  had 
always  been  to  him  hitherto.  Ile  understood 
now  that,  loving  her,  he  had  never  looked  at  her. 
All  the  same  it  was  very  really  she,  and  he  knew 
every  little  detail  of  her  face  ;  still,  it  was  the  first 
time  he  clearly  idcMitified  them  all.  I  lis  anxious 
attention,  scrutinizing  her  face  which  he  loved,  rc- 

112 


Pierre   and  Jean 


called  a  différence,  u  j)h\si()gnuniy  lie  liatl  never 
before  discerned. 

Ile  rose  to  go  ;  then,  suddenly  yielding  to  the 
invincible  longing  to  know  which  iiad  been  gnaw- 
ing at  him  since  yesterday,  he  said  : 

"  By  the  way,  I  fancy  I  remember  that  you 
used  to  have,  in  Paris,  a  little  portrait  of  Maréchal, 
in  the  drawing-room." 

She  hesitated  for  a  second  or  two,  or  at  least 
he  fancied  she  hesitated  ;  then  she  said  : 

"  To  be  sure." 

"  What  has  become  of  the  portrait  ?  " 

She  might  have  replied  more  readily  : 

"  That  portrait — stay  ;  I  don't  exactly  know — 
perhaps  it  is  in  my  desk." 

"  It  would  be  kind  of  you  to  find  it." 

"  Yes,  I  will  look  for  it.  What  do  you  v.-ant 
it  for  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it  was  not  for  myself.  I  thought  it  would 
be  a  natural  thing  to  give  it  to  Jean,  and  that  he 
would  be  pleased  to  have  it." 

"  Yes,  you  arc  right  ;  that  is  a  good  idea.  I 
will  look  for  it,  as  soon  as  I  am  up." 

And  he  went  out. 

It  was  a  blue  day,  without  a  breath  of  wind. 
The  folks  in  the  streets  seemed  in  good  spirits, 
the  merchants  going  to  business,  the  clerks  going 

s  I  I  Î 


Pierre   aiui  jcan 

to  their  oiïicc,  tlic  girls  goiui,^  lo  lluir  shop.  Some 
sang  as  tlicv  went,  cxhilaralcJ  hy  the  bright 
weather. 

The  passengers  were  already  going  on  board 
the  Trouville  boat  ;  Pierre  took  a  seat  aft  on  a 
wooden  bench. 

lie  asked  himself  : 

'•  Now  was  she  uneasy  at  my  asking  for  the 
portrait  or  only  surprised  ?  Has  she  mislaid  it,  or 
has  she  hidden  it  ?  Does  she  know  where  it  is,  or 
does  she  not  ?     If  she  has  hidaen  it — why  ?" 

And  his  mind,  still  following  uji  the  same  line 
of  thought  from  one  deduction  to  another,  came  to 
this  conclusion  : 

That  portrait — of  a  friend,  of  a  lover,  had  re- 
mained ii^the  drawing-room  in  a  conspicuous  place, 
till  one  day  when  the  wife  and  mother  perceived, 
first  of  all  and  before  any  one  else,  that  it  bore  a 
likeness  to  her  son.  Without  doubt  she  had  for  a 
long  time  been  on  the  watch  for  this  resemblance  ; 
then,  having  detected  it,  having  noticed  its  begin- 
nings, and  understanding  that  any  one  might,  any 
day,  observe  it  too,  she  had  one  evening  removed 
the  perilous  little  picture  and  had  hidden  it,  not 
daring  to  destroy  it. 

Pierre  recollected  quite  clearly  now  tliat  it  was 
long,  long  before  they  left  Paris  that  the  miniature 

114 


Pierre  and  Jean 

had  vanished.  U  IkkI  disappeared,  he  thought, 
about  the  time  that  Jean's  beard  was  beginning 
to  grow,  whieli  had  made  him  suddenly  and  won- 
derfully like  the  fair  young  man  who  smiled  from 
the  picture-frame. 

The  motion  of  the  boat  as  it  put  off  disturbed 
and  dissipated  his  meditations.  He  stood  up  and 
looked' at  the  sea.  The  little  steamer,  once  outside 
the  piers,  turned  to  the  left,  and  puffing  and  snort- 
ing and  quivering,  made  for  a  distant  point  visible 
through  the  morning  haze.  The  red  sail  of  a  heavy 
fishing-bark,  lying  motionless  on  the  level  waters, 
looked  like  a  large  rock  standing  up  out  of  the 
sea.  And  the  Seine,  rolling  down  from  Rouen, 
seemed  a  wide  inlet  dividing  two  neighbouring 
lands.  They  reached  the  harbour  of  Trouville  in 
less  than  an  hour,  and  as  it  was  the  time  of  day 
when  the  world  was  bathing,  Pierre  went  to  the 
shore. 

From  a  distance  it  looked  like  a  garden  full  of 
gaudy  flowers.  All  along  the  stretch  of  yellow 
sand,  from  the  pier  as  far  as  the  Roches  Noires, 
sun-shades  of  every  hue,  hats  of  every  shape, 
dresses  of  every  colour,  in  groups  outside  the  bath- 
ing huts,  in  long  rows  by  the  margin  of  the  waves, 
or  scattered  here  and  there,  really  looked  like  im- 
mense  bouquets   on   a  vast   meadow.     And   the 

115 


Pierre   and  Jean 

Babel  of  sounds — voices  near  and  far  ringing  thin 
in  the  light  atmosphere,  shuuls  and  eiiesof  chil- 
ihen  being  bathed,  clear  laughter  of  women — all 
made  a  pleasant,  continuous  din,  mingling  with 
the  unheeding  breeze,  and  brealiied  with  the  air 
itself. 

Pierre  walked  on  among  all  this  throng,  more 
lost,  more  remote  from  them,  more  isolated,  more 
drowned  in  his  torturing  thoughts,  than  if  he  had 
been  flung  overboard  from  tiie  deck  of  a  ship  a 
hundred  miles  from  shore.  He  passed  by  them 
and  heard  a  few  sentences  without  listening  ;  and 
he  saw,  without  looking,  how  the  men  si)oke  to 
the  women,  and  the  women  smiled  at  the  men. 
Then,  suddenly,  as  if  he  had  awoke,  he  j)erceived 
them  all  ;  and  hatred  of  them  all  surged  up  in  his 
soul,  for  they  seemed  happy  and  content. 

Now,  as  he  went,  he  studied  the  groups,  wan- 
derin":  round  them  full  of  a  fresh  set  of  ideas.  All 
these  many-hued  dresses  which  covered  the  sands 
like  nosegays,  these  pretty  stuffs,  those  showy  para- 
sols, the  fictitious  grace  of  tightened  waists,  all  the 
ingenious  devices  of  fashion  from  tlie  smart  little 
shoe  to  the  extravagant  hat,  the  seductive  charm 
of  gesture,  voice,  and  smile,  all  the  coquettish  airs 
in  short  displayed  on  this  seashore,  suddenly  struck 
him   as  stuj)endous   efilorescences  of    female   de- 

ii6 


Pierre  and  )can 

pravity.  yXll  these  Ixdizcii'  '1  women  aimed  at 
plcasin,^;,  beuilcliiui^r,  and  dtludin^r  some  man. 
They  liad  dressed  themselves  out  for  men — iov  all 
men— all  exeeplin^;  the  husband  whom  the)-  no 
longer  needed  to  conciuer.  Tiuy  had  dressed 
themselves  out  for  the  lover  of  yesterday  and  the 
lover  of  to-morrow,  for  the  stran,o;cr  ijiey  mi^dit 
meet  and  notice  or  were  perhaps  on  the  look- 
out  for. 

And  these  men  silting  close  to  them,  eye  to 
eye  and  mouth  to  mouth,  invited  them,  desired 
them,  hunted  them  like  game,  coy  and  elusive  not- 
withstanding that  it  seemed  so  near  and  so  easy  to 
capture.  This  wide  shore  was,  then,  no  more  than 
a  love-market  where  some  sold,  others  gave  them- 
selves— some  drove  a  hard  bargain  for  their  kisses 
while  others  promised  them  for  love.  All  these 
women  thought  only  of  one  thing,  to  make  their 
bodies  desirable — bodies  already  given,  sold,  or 
promised  to  other  men.  And  he  reflected  that  it 
was  everywhere  the  same,  all  the  world  over. 

His  mother  had  done  what  others  did — that 
was  all.  Others  ?  No.  For  there  were  excep- 
tions— many,  very  many.  These  women  he  saw 
about  him,  rich,  giddy,  love-seeking,  belonged  on 
the  wdiole  to  the  class  of  fashionable  and  showy 
women  of  the  world,  some  indeed  to  the  less  re- 

117 


Pierre  and  jean 

spcctablc  sistcrliood,  for  on  these  sands,  tramjilcd 
by  the  legion  of  idlers,  the  tribe  of  viituous,  home- 
keeping  women  were  not  to  be  seen. 

The  tide  was  rising,  driving  the  foremost  rank 
of  visitors  gradually  landward.  Ile  saw  the  vari- 
ous groups  jump  up  and  fly,  carrying  their  chairs 
with  them,  before  the  yellow  waves  as  they  rolled 
u})  edged  with  a  lace-like  frill  of  foam.  The  bath- 
ing-machines too  were  being  pulled  up  by  horses, 
and  along  the  planked  way  which  formed  the 
promenade  running  along  the  shore  from  end  to 
end,  there  was  now  an  increasing  flow,  slow  and 
dense,  of  well-dressed  peojile  in  two  opposite 
streams  elbowing  and  mingling.  Pierre,  made 
nervous  and  exasperated  by  this  bustle,  made  his 
escape  into  the  town,  and  went  to  get  his  break- 
fast at  a  modest  tavern  on  the  skirts  of  the  fields. 

When  he  had  finished  with  cofl"ee,  he  stretched 
his  legs  on  a  couple  of  chairs  under  a  lime-tree  in 
front  of  the  house,  and  as  he  had  hardly  slejit  the 
night  before,  he  presently  fell  into  a  doze.  After 
resting  for  some  hours  he  shook  himself,  and  find- 
ing that  it  was  time  to  go  on  board  again  he  set 
out,  tormented  by  a  sudden  stiffness  which  had 
come  upon  him  during  his  long  nap.  Now  he 
was  eager  to  be  at  home  again  ;  to  know  whether 
his  mother  had  found  the   j)ortrait  of   Maréchal. 

n8 


Pierre  and  Jean 


Would  she  be  the  first  to  speak  of  it,  or  would 
he  be  obliged  to  ask  for  it  again  ?  If  she  waited 
to  be  questioned  further  it  must  be  because  she 
had  some  secret  reason  for  not  showing  the  minia- 
ture. 

But  when  he  was  at  home  again,  and  in  his 
room,  he  hesitated  about  going  down  to  dinner. 
tie  was  too  wretched.  His  revolted  soul  had  not 
yet  time  to  calm  down.  However,  he  made  up 
his  mind  to  it,  and  appeared  in  the  dining-room 
just  as  they  were  sitting  down. 

All  their  faces  were  beaming. 

"Well,"  said  Roland,  "are  you  getting  on 
with  your  purchases  ?  I  do  not  want  to  see  any- 
thing till  it  is  all  in  its  place." 

And  his  wife  replied  :  "  Oh,  yes.  We  are  get- 
ting on.  But  it  takes  much  consideration  to  avoid 
buying  things  that  do  not  match.  The  furniture 
question  is  an  absorbing  one." 

She  had  spent  the  day  in  going  with  Jean  to 
cabinet-makers  and  upholsterers.  Her  fancy  was 
for  rich  materials,  rather  splendid  to  strike  the  eye 
at  once.  Her  son,  on  the  contrary,  wished  for 
something  simple  and  elegant.  So  in  front  of 
everything  put  before  them  they  had  each  repeated 
their  arguments.  She  declared  that  a  client,  a 
defendant,  must  be  impressed  ;  that  as  soon  as  he 

119 


Pierre   and   Jean 

is  sliown  into  iiis  counsel's  wailinn-mom  he  should 
have  a  sense  of  wealth. 

Jean,  on  the  other  hand,  wishing  to  attract 
only  an  elec^ant  and  ()j)ulcnt  class,  was  anxious  to 
cajitivate  persons  of  rclincnicnt  by  his  (luict  and 
perfect  taste. 

And  this  discussion,  which  had  gone  on  all  day, 
began  again  with  the  soup. 

Roland  had  no  opinion.  He  repeated  :  "  I  do 
not  want  to  hear  anything  about  it.  I  will  go  and 
see  it  when  it  is  all  finished." 

Mme.  Roland  appealed  to  the  jutlgnient  of  her 
elder  son. 

"And  you,  Pierre,  what  do  you  think  of  the 
matter?" 

His  nerves  were  in  a  state  of  such  intense  ex- 
citement that  he  would  have  liked  to  reply  with  an 
oath.  However,  he  only  answered  in  a  dry  tone 
quivering  with  annoyance. 

"  Oh,  I  am  quite  of  Jean's  mind.  I  like  noth- 
ing so  well  as  simplicity,  which,  in  matters  of 
taste,  is  equivalent  to  rectitude  in  matters  of 
conduct." 

I  lis  mother  went  on  : 

"You  must  remember  that  we  live  in  a  city  of 
commercial  men,  where  good  taste  is  not  to  be 
met  with  at  every  turn." 

120 


Pierre   and   )ean 


Pierre  replied  : 

"What  docs  that  matter?  Is  that  a  reason 
for  living  as  fools  do?  If  my  fcllow-townsmcn 
are  stupid  and  ill-bred,  need  I  follow  their  exam- 
ple ?  A  woman  does  not  misconduct  herself  be- 
cause her  neighbour  has  a  lover." 

Jean  began  to  laugh. 

"  You  argue  by  comparisons  which  seem  to  have 
been  borrowed  from  the  maxims  of  a  moralist." 

Pierre  made  no  reply.  His  mother  and  his 
brother  reverted  to  the  question  of  stuffs  and  arm- 
chairs. 

He  sat  looking  at  them  as  he  had  looked  at 
his  mother  in  the  morning  before  starting  for 
Trouville  ;  looking  at  them  as  a  stranger  who 
would  study  them,  and  he  felt  as  though  he  had 
really  suddenly  come  into  a  family  of  which  he 
knew  nothing. 

His  father,  above  all,  amazed  his  eyes  and  his 
mind.  That  flabby,  burly  man,  happy  and  besot- 
ted, was  his  own  father  !  No,  no  ;  Jean  was  not 
in  the  least  like  him. 

His  family  ! 

Within  these  two  days  an  unknown  and  malig- 
nant hand,  the  hand  of  a  dead  man,  had  torn  asun- 
der and  broken,  one  by  one,  all  the  ties  which  had 
held  these  four  human  beings  together.     It  was 

121 


Pierre  and  Jean 


all  over,  all  ruincil.  \\c  had  now  no  mother — for 
he  couKl  no  Innocr  love  her  now  that  he  could  nol 
revere  her  witii  that  jicrfect,  tender,  and  pious  re- 
spect which  a  son's  love  demands;  no  hrother — 
since  his  brother  was  the  child  of  a  stranger  ; 
nothinjT  was  left  him  hut  his  father,  that  coarse 
man  whom  he  could  not  love  in  spite  of  himself. 

And  he  suddenly  broke  out  : 

"I  say,  mother,  have  you  found  that  por- 
trait?" 

She  opened  her  eyes  in  surprise. 

"What  portrait?" 

"The  portrait  of  Maréchal." 

"  No — that  is  to  say — yes — I  have  not  found 
it,  but  I  think  I  know  where  it  is." 

"What  is  that? "asked  Roland.  And  Pierre 
answered  : 

"A  little  likeness  of  Maréchal  which  used  to 
be  in  the  dining-room  in  Paris.  I  thought  that 
Jean  mi<^ht  be  glad  to  have  it." 

Roland  exclaimed  : 

"  Why,  yes,  to  be  sure  ;  I  remember  it  per- 
fectly. I  saw  it  again  last  week.  Vour  mother 
found  it  in  her  desk  when  she  was  tidying  the 
papers.  It  was  on  Thursday  or  Friday.  Do  you 
remember,  Louise?  I  was  shaving  myself  when 
you  took  it  out  and  laid  it  on  a  chair  by  yuur  side 

122 


Pierre  and  Jean 


with  a  pile  of  letters  of  which  you  burned  lialf. 
Strange,  isn't  it,  tiiat  you  siioukl  iiave  come  across 
that  portrait  only  tn'o  or  three  days  before  Jean 
heard  of  his  legacy?  If  I  believed  in  j)resenti- 
ments  I  should  think  that  this  was  one." 

Mme.  Roland  calmly  replied  : 

*'  Yes,  I  know  where  it  is.  I  will  fetch  it 
presently." 

Then  she  had  lied  !  When  she  had  said  that 
very  morning  to  her  son  who  had  asked  her  what 
had  become  of  the  miniature  :  "  I  don't  exactly 
know — perhaps  it  is  in  my  desk  " — it  was  a  lie  ! 
She  had  seen  it,  touched  it,  handled  it,  gazed  at 
it  but  a  few^  days  since  ;  and  then  she  had  hidden 
it  away  again  in  the  secret  drawer  with  those  let- 
ters— his  letters. 

Pierre  looked  at  the  mother  who  had  lied  to 
him  ;  looked  at  her  with  the  concentrated  fury  of 
a  son  who  had  been  cheated,  robbed  of  his  most 
sacred  affection,  and  with  the  jealous  wrath  of  a 
man  who,  after  long  being  blind,  at  last  discovers  a 
disgraceful  betrayal.  If  he  had  been  that  woman's 
husband  —  and  not  her  child  —  he  would  have 
gripped  her  by  the  wrists,  seized  her  by  the  shoul- 
ders or  the  hair,  have  flung  her  on  the  ground, 
have  hit  her,  hurt  her,  crushed  her  !  And  he 
might   say    nothing,   do    nothing,   show    nothing, 

^23 


Pierre   aiul   )eaii 

reveal  notliinu;.  lie  was  lur  son;  he  had  no 
veniicanee  lu  take.  .Anil  he  hail  not  \)vv\\  de- 
ccived. 

Nay,  but  she  had  deceived  his  tenderness,  his 
pious  respect.  She  owed  to  him  tu  be  without 
reproach,  as  all  mothers  owe  it  tu  their  children. 
If  the  fury  that  boiled  within  him  verged  on 
hatred  it  was  that  he  felt  her  to  be  even  more 
guilty  towards  him  than  towards  his  father. 

The  love  of  man  and  wife  is  a  vuluntary  com- 
pact in  which  the  one  who  proves  weak  is  guilty 
only  of  perfidy  ;  but  when  the  wife  is  a  mother 
her  duty  is  a  higher  one,  since  nature  has  intrusted 
her  with  a  race.  If  she  fails,  then  she  is  cowardly, 
worthless,  infamous. 

"  I  do  not  care,"  said  Roland  suddenly,  stretch- 
ing out  his  legs  under  the  table,  as  he  did  every 
evening  while  he  sipj^ed  his  glass  of  black-currant 
brandy.  "  Vou  may  do  worse  than  live  idle-  when 
you  have  a  snug  little  income.  I  huj^e  Jean  will 
have  us  to  dinner  in  style  now.  Hang  it  all  !  if  I 
have  indigestion  now  and  then  1  cannot  lidp  it." 

Then  turning  to  his  wife  he  atldcd  : 

"Go  and  fetch  that  portrait,  little  woman,  as 
you  have  done  your  dinner.  I  should  like  to  see 
it  again  myself." 

She  rose,  took  a  taper,  and  went.     Then,  after 
124 


Pierre  and  Jean 

an  absence  which  Picric  ihouqht  Ion<;-,  thouL,di  she 
was  not  away  mure  than  thitt:  minutes,  Mme.  Ro- 
hnul  returned  smiHiiij,',  and  holding  an  old-fasii- 
ioncd  gilt  fmmc  by  I  lie  ring. 

"  Here  it  is,"  said  she,  "  I  found  it  at  once." 
The  doctor  was  the  first  to  put  forth  his  hand  ; 
he  took  tlic  picture,  and  holding  it  a  little  away 
from  him,  he  examined  it.  Then,  fully  aware  that 
his  mother  was  looking  at  him,  he  slowly  raised 
his  eyes  and  fixed  them  on  his  brother  to  compare 
the  faces.  He  could  hardly  refrain,  in  his  violence, 
from  saying  :  "  Dear  me  !  How  like  Jean  !  "  And 
though  he  dared  not  utter  the  terril)le  words,  he 
betrayed  his  thought  by  his  manner  of  comparing 
the  living  face  with  the  painted  one. 

They  had,  no  doubt,  details  in  common  ;  the 
same  beard,  the  same  brow  ;  but  nothing  sufficient- 
ly marked  to  justify  the  assertion:  "This  is  the 
father  and  that  the  son."  It  was  rather  a  family 
likeness,  a  relationship  of  physiognomies  in  which 
the  same  blood  courses.  But  what  to  Pierre  was 
far  more  decisive  than  the  common  aspect  of  the 
faces,  was  that  his  mother  had  risen,  had  turned 
her  back,  and  was  pretending,  too  deliberately,  to 
be  putting  the  sugar  basin  and  the  liqueur  bottle 
away  in  a  cupboard.  She  understood  that  he  knew, 
or  at  any  rate  had  his  suspicions. 

12; 


Pierre  and  Jean 


"Hand  it  on  to  nu-,"  said  Ixoland. 

Picric  licld  out  tlic  miniature  and  his  father 
drew  the  candle  towards  him  to  sec  it  better  ;  then 
lie  murmured  in  a  j)athetic  tone  : 

"  Poor  fellow  !  To  think  that  he  was  like  that 
when  we  fust  knew  him  !  Crist i  !  How  time 
flics  !  He  was  a  ^ood-looking  man,  too,  in  those 
days,  anil  with  such  a  pleasant  manner — was  not 
he,  Louise  ?" 

As  his  wife  made  no  answer  he  went  on  : 

"  And  what  an  even  temper  !  I  never  saw  him 
put  out.  And  now  it  is  all  at  an  end — nothing 
left  of  him — but  what  he  bequeathed  to  Jean. 
Well,  at  any  rate  you  may  take  your  oath  that 
that  man  was  a  good  and  faithful  friend  to  the 
last.     Even  on  his  tleath-bed  he  did  not  forget  us." 

Jean,  in  his  turn,  held  out  his  hand  for  the 
j)ielure.  He  gazed  at  it  for  a  few  minutes  and 
then  said  regretfully  : 

"  I  do  not  recognise  it  at  all.  I  only  remem- 
ber him  with  white  hair." 

He  returned  the  miniature  to  his  mother.  She 
cast  a  hasty  glance  at  it,  lookinjj:  away  again  as 
if  she  were  frightened  ;  then  in  her  usual  voice 
she  said  : 

"  It  belongs  to  3'ou  nr)\v,  mv  little  Jean,  as  you 
arc  his  heir.      We  will  take  it  to  your  new  rooms." 

126 


Pierre  and  Jean 


And  when  they  went  into  the  drawing-room  she 
placed  tlie  picture  on  the  cliinmey-shelf  hy  the 
clock,  where  it  had  formerly  stood. 

Roland  lilled  his  pij)e  ;  Pierre  and  Jcc.n  li<;lited 
cigarettes.  They  commonly  smoked  them,  Pierre 
while  he  paced  the  room,  Jean,  sunk  in  a  deep 
arm-chair,  with  his  legs  crossed.  Their  father  al- 
ways sat  astride  a  chair  and  spat  from  afar  into  the 
fire-place. 

Mme.  Roland,  on  a  low  seat  by  a  little  table 
on  which  the  lanij)  stood,  embroidered,  or  knitted, 
or  marked  linen. 

This  evening  she  was  beginning  a  piece  of 
worsted  work,  intended  for  Jean's  lodgings.  It  was 
a  difficult  and  complicated  pattern,  and  required 
all  her  attention.  Still,  now  and  again,  her  eye, 
which  was  counting  the  stitches,  glanced  up  swift- 
ly and  furtively  at  the  little  portrait  of  the  dead 
as  it  leaned  against  the  clock.  And  the  doctor, 
who  was  striding  to  and  fro  across  the  little  room 
in  four  or  five  steps,  met  his  mother's  look  at  each 
turn. 

It  was  as  though  they  were  spying  on  each 
other  ;  and  acute  uneasiness,  intolerable  to  be 
borne,  clutched  at  Pierre's  heart.  He  was  saying 
to  himself — at  once  tortured  and  glad  : 

"  She  must  be  in  misery  at  this  moment  if  she 
127 


Pierre   aiu!  Jean 


knows  tluU  I  gucss  !  "  Aiui  cacli  time  lie  reached 
llie  lire-place  he  stojipcil  for  a  few  seconds  lo  luuk 
at  Marcchal's  fair  hair,  and  show  (juite  j)lainly  that 
he  was  haunted  by  a  fixed  idea.  So  that  this  little 
portrait,  smaller  than  an  openetl  palm,  was  like  a 
living  being,  malignant  and  threatening,  suddenly 
brought  into  this  house  and  tiiis  family. 

Presently  the  street-door  bell  rang.  Mme. 
Roland,  always  so  self-possessed,  started  violently, 
betraying  to  her  doctor  son  the  anguish  of  her 
nerves.  Then  she  said  :  "  It  must  be  Mme.  Rosé- 
milly  ;"  and  her  eye  again  anxiously  turned  to  the 
mantel-shelf. 

Pierre  understood,  or  thought  he  understood, 
her  fears  and  misery.  A  woman's  eye  is  keen,  a 
woman's  v;it  is  nimble,  and  her  instincts  suspicious. 
When  this  woman  who  was  coming  in  should  see 
the  miniature  of  a  man  she  did  not  know,  she 
might  perhaps  at  the  first  glance  discover  the  like- 
ness between  this  face  and  Jean.  Then  she  would 
know  and  understand  everything. 

He  was  seized  with  dread,  a  sudden  and  hor- 
ril)le  dread  of  this  shame  being  uiuiilcd,  and, 
turning  about  just  as  the  door  opened,  he 
took  the  little  painting  and  slipjxxl  it  under  the 
clock  without  being  seen  by  his  father  and 
brother. 

128 


Pierre   and  Jean 

When  lie  met  his  mother's  eyes  a^niin  tliey 
seemed  to  liim  altered,  dim,  and  haggard. 

"Good  evening,"  said  Mme.  Rosémilly.  "I 
have  come  to  ask  you  (nv  a  eup  of  tea." 

But  while  they  were  bustling  about  her  and 
asking  after  her  health,  Pierre  made  ofï,  the  dcjor 
having  been  left  open. 

When  his  absence  was  perceived  they  were  all 
surprised.  Jean,  annoyed  for  the  young  widow, 
who,  he  thought,  would  be  hurt,  muttered  : 
"What  a  bear!" 

Mme.  Roland  replied  :  "  You  must  not  be 
vexed  with  him  ;  he  is  not  very  well  to-day  and 
tired  with  his  excursion  to  Trouville." 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Roland,  "  that  is  no  reason 
for  taking  himself  off  like  a  savage." 

Mme.  Rosémilly  tried  to  smooth  matters  by 
saying:  "Not  at  all,  not  at  all.  He  has  gone 
away  in  the  English  fashion  ;  people  always  dis- 
appear in  that  way  in  fashionable  circles  if  they 
want  to  leave  early." 

"  Oh,  in  fashionable  circles,  I  dare  say,"  replied 
Jean.  "  But  a  man  does  not  treat  his  family  à 
r Anglaise,  and  my  brother  has  done  nothine  else 
for  some  time  past." 


129 


CHAPTER   VI 

Fc^R  a  week  or  two  nolliiiiLr  occurml  at  the 
Roland's.  The  father  went  fishincr  ;  Jean,  with  his 
niullier's  lielp,  was  furnishinc^  and  settling  himself; 
Pierre,  very  gloomy,  never  was  seen  excepting  at 
meal-times. 

Tlis  father  having  asked  him  one  evening: 
"Why  the  deuce  do  you  always  come  in  with  a 
face  as  cheerful  as  a  funeral?  This  is  not  the 
first  time  I  have  remarked  it." 

The  doctor  replied  :  "  The  fact  is  I  am  ter- 
ribly conscious  of  the  burden  of  life." 

The  old  man  had  not  a  notion  what  ne  meant, 
and  with  an  aggrieved  look  he  went  on  :  "It 
really  is  too  bad.  Ever  since  we  had  the  good 
luck  to  come  into  this  legacy,  every  one  seems 
unhappy.  It  is  as  though  some  accident  had  be- 
fallen us,  as  if  we  were  in  mourning  for  some  one." 

"  I  am  in  mourning  for  some  one,"  said  Pierre. 

"  Vou  are  ?     I-'or  whom  ?  " 

"  For  some  one  you  never  knew,  and  of  whom 
I  was  too  fcjnd." 

130 


Pierre   and  Jean 


Roland  iiiKii^iiK'd  lliat  liis  S(;n  alluded  t(j  some 
girl  with  whom  lie  had  had  some  love  passages, 
and  he  saitl  : 

"A  woman,  I  suppose." 

"  Yes,  a  woman." 

"Dead?" 

"No.     Worse.     Ruined!" 

"  Ah  !  " 

Though  he  was  startled  by  this  unexpected 
confidence,  in  his  wife's  presence  too,  and  by  his 
son's  strange  tone  about  it,  the  old  man  made  no 
further  inquiries,  for  in  his  opinion  such  affairs  did 
not  concern  a  third  person. 

Mme.  Roland  affected  not  to  hear  ;  she  seemed 
ill  and  was  very  pale.  Several  times  already  her 
husband,  surprised  to  see  her  sit  down  as  if  she 
were  dropping  into  her  chair,  and  to  hear  her 
gasp  as  if  she  could  not  draw  her  breath,  had 
said  : 

"  Really,  Louise,  you  look  very  ill  ;  you  tire 
yourself  too  much  with  helping  Jean.  Give  your- 
self a  little  rest.  Sacristi  !  The  rascal  is  in  no 
hurry,  as  he  is  a  rich  man." 

She  shook  her  head  without  a  word. 

But  to-day  her  pallor  was  so  great  that  Roland 
remarked  on  it  again. 

"  Come,  come,"  said  he,  "  this  will  not  do  at 
131 


Pierre   and   Jean 


all.  niv  dear  old  woman.  \'ou  iiuist  take  care  of 
yourself."  TlKn,  addressing  his  son,  "  You  surely 
must  see  that  your  mother  is  ill.  1  lave  you  (jues- 
tioned  her,  at  any  rate?" 

Pierre  replied:  "No;  I  had  not  noticed  that 
there  was  anything  the  matter  with  her." 

.•\t  this  Roland  was  angry. 

"  But  it  stares  you  in  tiie  face,  confound  you  ! 
\Vhat  on  earth,  is  the  good  of  your  being  a  doctor 
if  you  cannot  even  see  that  your  mother  is  out  of 
sorts  ?  Why,  look  at  her,  just  look  at  her.  Really, 
a  man  might  die  under  his  very  eyes  and  this  doc- 
tor would  never  think  there  was  an \" thing  the 
matter  !  " 

Mme.  Roland  was  panting  for  breath,  and  so 
white  that  her  husband  exclaimed  : 

"  She  is  going  to  faint." 

"  No,  no,  it  is  nothing — I  shall  get  better  di- 
rectly— it  is  nothing." 

Pierre  had  gone  uj)  to  her  and  was  looking  at 
her  steadily. 

"  What  ails  you  ?"  he  said.  And  she  repeated 
in  an  undertone  : 

"  Nothing,  nothing — I  assure  you,  nothing." 

Roland  had  gone  to  fetch  some  vinegar  ;  he 
now  returned,  and  handing  the  bottle  to  his  son 
he  said  : 

132 


Pierre  and  ]can 


"  Here — do  sunicLliing  lo  cusc  her.  Have  you 
felt  lier  heart?" 

As  l-'icrre  bent  over  her  to  feel  lier  pulse 
she  pulled  away  her  hand  so  vehemently  that 
she  struck  it  against  a  chair  which  was  stand- 
ing by. 

"  Come,"  said  he  in  icy  tones,  "  let  mc  see  what 
I  can  do  for  you,  as  you  are  ill." 

Then  she  raised  her  arm  and  held  it  out  to 
him.  lier  skin  was  burning,  the  blood  throbbing 
in  short  irregular  leaps. 

"  You  are  certainly  ill,"  he  murmured.  "  You 
must  take  something  to  quiet  you.  I  will  write 
you  a  prescription."  And  as  he  wrote,  stooping 
over  the  paper,  a  low  sound  of  choked  sighs, 
smothered,  quick  breathing  and  suppressed  sobs 
made  him  suddenly  look  round  at  her.  She  was 
weeping,  her  hands  covering  her  face. 

Roland,  quite  distracted,  asked  her  : 

*'  Louise,  Louise,  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ? 
What  on  earth  ails  you  ?" 

She  did  not  answer,  but  seemed  racked  by 
some  deep  and  dreadful  grief.  Her  husband  tried 
to  take  her  hands  from  her  face,  but  she  resisted 
him,  repeating  : 

"  No,  no.  no." 

He  appealed  to  his  son. 
133 


Pierre   aiul   Jean 

"  But  wliat  is  ihc  matter  with  lui?  I  luvcr 
saw  \\cv  like  this." 

"It  is  nothiiiL;-,"  said  Pierre,  "she  is  a  little 
hysterical." 

And  he  felt  as  if  it  were  a  comfort  to  him  to 
sec  her  sufTcrinc:  thus,  as  if  this  anuuish  miticfated 
his  resentment  and  diminished  his  mother's  load  of 
opprobrium.  I  le  looked  at  her  as  a  judge  satisfied 
with  his  day's  work. 

Suddenly  she  rose,  rushed  to  the  door  with 
such  a  swift  impulse  that  it  was  impossible  to  fore- 
stall or  to  stop  her,  and  ran  off  to  lock  herself  into 
her  room. 

Roland  and  the  doctor  were  left  face  to  face. 

"Can  you  make  head  or  tail  of  it  ?"  said  the 
father. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  the  other.  "  It  is  a  little  ner- 
vous disturbance,  not  alarming  or  surprising  ;  such 
attacks  may  very  likely  recur  from  time  to  time." 

They  did  in  fact  recur,  almost  every  day  ;  and 
Pierre  seemed  to  bring  them  on  with  a  word,  as  if 
he  had  the  clew  to  her  strange  and  new  disorder. 
He  would  discern  in  her  face  a  lucid  interval  of 
peace  and  with  the  willingness  of  a  torturer  would, 
with  a  word,  revive  the  anguish  that  had  bein  hilled 
for  a  moment. 

But  he,  too,  was  sufTering  as  cruelly  as  she.  It 
134 


Pierre   and  Jean 

was  dreadful  pain  to  him  tlial  lie  could  no  longer 
love  her  nor  respect  her,  that  he  must  put  her  on 
the  rack.  When  he  had  laid  bare  the  bleeding 
wound  which  he  had  opened  in  her  woman's,  her 
mother's  heart,  when  he  felt  how  wretched  and 
desperate  she  was,  he  would  go  out  alone,  wander 
about  the  town,  so  torn  by  remorse,  so  broken  by- 
pity,  so  grieved  to  have  thus  hammered  her  with 
his  scorn  as  her  son,  that  he  longed  to  fling  him- 
self into  the  sea  and  put  an  end  to  it  all  by  drown- 
ing himself. 

Ah  !  I  low  gladly  now  would  he  have  forgiven 
her.  But  he  could  not,  for  he  was  incapable  of 
forgetting.  If  only  he  could  have  desisted  from 
making  her  suffer  ;  but  this  again  he  could  not, 
suffering  as  he  did  himself.  He  went  home  to  his 
meals,  full  of  relenting  resolutions  ;  then,  as  soon 
as  he  saw  her,  as  soon  as  he  met  her  eye — formerly 
so  clear  and  frank,  now  so  evasive,  fri^-htcncd,  and 
bewildered — he  struck  at  her  in  spite  of  himself, 
unable  to  suppress  the  treacherous  words  which 
would  rise  to  his  lips. 

The  disgraceful  secret,  known  to  them  alone, 
goaded  him  up  against  her.  It  was  as  a  poison 
flowing  in  his  veins  and  giving  him  an  impulse  to 
bite  like  a  mad  docf. 

And  there  was  no  one  in  the  way  now  to  hin- 
135 


Pierre   and   ]caa 

dcr  his  roadini^  lier;  Jimu  lived  almost  enlircly  in 
liis  new  aparlnicius,  aiul  only  came  iiomc  lu  dinner 
and  lo  sleep  every  night  at  his  father's. 

He  frequently  observed  his  brother's  biilerncss 
and  violence,  and  attributed  them  to  jealousy.  He 
promised  himself  that  some  da}-  he  would  leach 
him  his  i)lace  and  j^ivc  him  a  lesson,  for  life  at 
home  was  becoming  very  painful  as  a  result 
of  these  constant  scenes.  But  as  he  now  lived 
apart  he  sufTered  less  from  this  brutal  conduct, 
and  his  love  of  peace  prompted  him  to  patience. 
His  good  fortune,  too,  had  turned  his  head,  and 
he  scarcely  paused  to  think  of  anything  which 
had  no  direct  interest  for  himself.  He  would 
come  in  full  of  fresh  little  anxieties,  full  of 
the  cut  of  a  morning-coat,  of  the  shape  of  a 
felt  hat,  of  the  proper  size  for  his  visiting-cards. 
And  he  talked  incessantly  of  all  the  details 
of  his  house — the  shelves  fixed  in  his  bed-room 
cupboard  to  keep  linen  on,  the  pegs  to  be  put  up 
in  the  entrance  hall,  the  electric  bells  contrived  to 
prevent  illicit  visitors  to  his  lodgings. 

It  had  been  settled  that  on  the  day  when  he 
should  take  up  his  abode  there  thev  should  make 
an  excursion  to  Saint  Jouin,  and  return  after 
dining  there,  to  drink  tea  in  his  rooms.  Roland 
wanted  to  go  by  water,  but  the  distance  and  the 

136 


Pierre  and  Jean 

uncertainty  of  reaching  it  in  a  sailing  hcjat  if  there 
slioiilil  l)e  a  head-wind,  made  them  reject  liis  j)lan, 
and  a  break  was  hired  for  tlie  day. 

They  set  out  at  ten  to  get  there  to  breakfast. 
The  dusty  high  road  lay  across  the  plain  of  Nor- 
mandy, which,  by  its  gentle  undulations,  dotted 
with  farms  embowered  in  trees,  wears  the  aspect 
of  an  endless  park.  In  the  vehicle,  as  it  jogged 
on  at  the  slow  trot  of  a  j)air  of  heavy  horses,  sat 
the  four  Rolands,  Mme.  Rosémilly,  and  Captain 
Beausire,  all  silent,  deafened  by  the  rumble  of  the 
wheels,  and  with  their  eyes  shut  to  keep  out  the 
clouds  of  dust. 

It  was  harvest-time.  Alternating  with  the  dark 
hue  of  clover  and  the  raw  green  of  beet-root,  the 
yellow  corn  lighted  up  the  landscape  with  gleams 
of  pale  gold  ;  the  fields  looked  as  if  they  had 
drunk  in  the  sunshine  which  poured  down  on 
them.  Here  and  there  the  reapers  were  at  work, 
and  in  the  plots  where  the  scythe  had  been  put  in 
the  men  might  be  seen  see-sawing  as  they  swept 
the  level  soil  with  the  broad,  wing-shaped  blade. 

After  a  two-hours'  drive  the  break  turned  off 
to  the  left,  past  a  windmill  at  work — a  melan- 
choly, gray  wreck,  half  rotten  and  doomed,  the 
last  survivor  of  its  ancient  race  ;  then  it  went 
into  a  pretty  inn  yard,  and  drew  up  at  the  door 

137 


IMcrrc   aiul    [can 

of  a  smart  little  iu)usc,  a  luislcliy  famous  in  those 
parts. 

Tlic  mistress,  well  known  as  "  La  hillc  Al- 
phonsinc,"  came  smilinj^  to  the  threslu)ld,  and 
held  out  her  hand  to  the  two  ladies  who  hesitated 
to  take  the  high  step. 

Some  strangers  were  already  at  breakfast 
under  a  tent  by  a  grass-plot  shaded  b\-  apple 
trees — Parisians,  who  had  come  from  Ktrelat  ; 
and  from  the  house  came  sounds  of  voices,  laugh- 
ter, and  the  clatter  of  plates  and  })ans. 

They  were  to  eat  in  a  room,  as  the  outer  din- 
ing-halls  were  all  full.  Roland  suddenly  caught 
sight  of  some  shrimping  nets  hanging  against  the 
wall. 

•'Ah!  ha!"  cried  he,  "you  catch  prawns 
here  ?  " 

"Yes,"  replied  Beausire.  "Indeed  it  is  the 
place  on  all  the  coast  where  most  are  taken." 

"  First-rate  !  Suppose  we  try  to  catch  some 
after  breakfast." 

As  it  happened  it  would  be  low  tide  at  three 
o'clock,  so  it  was  settled  that  they  should  all 
spend  the  afternoon  among  the  rocks,  hunting 
prawns. 

Tiiey  made  a  li,L,dit  breakfast,  as  a  precaution 
against  the  tendency  of  blood  to  the  head  when 

138 


Pierre  and  Jean 

they  should  have  their  fccL  in  the  water.  T\\vy 
also  wished  to  reserve  an  appetite  for  diinur, 
whieh  had  l)een  ordered  on  a  grand  seale  and  to 
be  ready  at  six  o'clock,  when  they  came  in. 

Roland  could  not  sit  still  for  impatience.  He 
wanted  to  buy  the  nets  specially  constructed  for 
fishing  prawns,  not  unlike  those  used  for  catching 
butterllies  in  the  country.  Their  name  on  the 
French  coast  is  lanets  ;  they  are  netted  bags  on  a 
circular  wooden  frame,  at  the  end  of  a  long  pole. 
Alphonsine,  still  smiling,  was  happy  to  lend  them. 
Then  she  helped  the  two  ladies  to  make  an  im- 
promptu change  of  toilet,  so  as  not  to  spoil  their 
dresses.  She  offered  them  skirts,  coarse  worsted 
stockings  and  hemp  shoes.  The  men  took  off 
their  socks  and  went  to  the  shoemaker's  to  buy 
wooden  shoes  instead. 

Then  they  set  out,  the  nets  over  their  shoul- 
ders and  creels  on  their  backs.  Mme.  Rosémilly 
was  very  sweet  in  this  costume,  with  an  unex- 
pected charm  of  countrified  audacity.  The  skirt 
which  Alphonsine  had  lent  her,  coquettishly 
tucked  up  and  firmly  stitched  so  as  to  allow  of 
her  running  and  jumping  fearlessly  on  the  rocks, 
displayed  her  ankle  and  lower  calf — the  firm  calf 
of  a  strong  and  agile  little  woman.  Her  dress 
was  loose  to  give  freedom  to  her  movements,  and 

139 


to  cover  lu  r  li(\ul  slic  luul  fouiul  ;in  enormous  gar- 
den hat  of  coarse  yellow  straw  wiili  an  extrava- 
gantly broad  brim  ;  and  to  this,  a  bunch  of  tam- 
arisk pinned  in  to  cock  it  on  one  side,  gave  a  very 
dashing  and  military  cfTect. 

Jean,  since  he  had  come  into  his  fortune,  had 
asked  himself  every  day  whether  or  no  he  should 
marry  her.  Each  time  he  sav/  her  he  made  uj)  his 
mind  to  ask  her  to  be  his  wife,  and  then,  as  soon 
as  he  was  alone  again,  he  considered  that  by  wait- 
ing he  would  have  lime  to  rellect.  She  was  now 
less  rich  than  he,  for  she  had  but  twelve  thousand 
francs  a  year  ;  but  it  was  in  real  estate,  in  farms 
and  lands  near  the  docks  in  Havre;  and  this  by- 
and-bye  might  be  worth  a  great  deal.  Their  for- 
tunes were  thus  approximately  equal,  and  certainly 
the  young  widow  attracted  him  greatly. 

As  he  wateiied  her  walking  in  front  of  him 
that  day  he  said  to  himself  : 

"  I  must  really  decide  ;  I  cannot  do  better,  I 
am  sure." 

They  went  down  a  little  ravine,  sloping  from 
the  village  to  the  cliff,  and  the  cliff,  at  the  end  of 
this  comb,  rose  about  eighty  metres  above  the  sea. 
I-'ramed  between  the  green  slopes  to  the  right  and 
left,  a  great  triangle  of  silvery  blue  water  could  be 
seen   in   the   distance,  and   a   sail,  scarcely  visible, 

140 


Pierre  and  Jean 

looked  like  an  insect  out  there.  The  sky,  paU^ 
with  light,  was  so  merged  into  one  wilii  tlie  water 
that  it  was  impossible  to  see  where  one  ended  and 
the  other  began  ;  and  tlie  two  women,  walking  in 
front  of  the  men,  stood  out  against  this  bright 
background,  tlieir  shapes  clearly  defined  in  their 
closely-fitting  dresses. 

Jean,  with  a  sparkle  in  his  eye,  watched  the 
smart  ankle,  the  neat  leg,  the  supple  waist,  and  the 
coquettish  broad  hat  of  Mme.  Rosémilly  as  they 
fled  away  before  him.  And  this  flight  fired  his 
ardour,  urging  him  on  to  the  sudden  determination 
which  comes  to  hesitating  and  timid  natures.  The 
warm  air,  fragrant  with  sea-coast  odours — gorse, 
clover,  and  thyme,  mingling  with  the  salt  smell  of 
the  rocks  at  low  tide — excited  him  still  more, 
mounting  to  his  brain  ;  and  every  moment  he  felt 
a  little  more  determined,  at  every  step,  at  every 
glance  he  cast  at  the  alert  figure  ;  he  made  up  his 
mind  to  delay  no  longer,  to  tell  her  that  he  loved 
her  and  hoped  to  marry  her.  The  prawn-fishing 
would  favour  him  by  affording  him  an  oppor- 
tunity ;  and  it  would  be  a  pretty  scene  too,  a  pretty 
spot  for  love-making — their  feet  in  a  pool  of  limpid 
water  while  they  watched  the  long  feelers  of  the 
shrimps  lurking  under  the  wrack. 

When  they  had  reached  the  end  of  the  comb 
141 


Pierre   :iiul   ]can 

and  the  vd'^c  of  cliff,  tlu'y  saw  a  lilllc  footpath 
shinliiiLi-  down  the  face  of  it;  and  helow  lluin, 
about  half-way  between  the  sea  and  the  foot  of 
the  precipice,  an  amazing  chaos  of  enormous 
boulders  tumbled  over  and  piled  one  above  the 
other  on  a  sort  of  grassy  and  undulating  plain 
which  extended  as  far  as  they  could  see  to  the 
southward,  formed  by  an  ancient  landslip.  On 
this  long  shelf  of  brushwood  and  grass,  disrupted, 
as  it  seemed,  by  the  shocks  of  a  volcano,  the  fallen 
rocks  seemed  the  wreck  of  a  great  ruined  city 
which  had  once  looked  out  on  the  ocean,  sheltered 
by  the  long  white  wall  of  the  overhanging  clifT. 

"That  is  fine!"  exclaimed  Mme.  Rosc^milly, 
standing  still.  Jean  had  come  up  with  her,  and 
with  a  beating  heart  offered  his  hand  to  help  her 
down  the  narrow^  steps  cut  in  the  rock. 

They  went  on  in  front,  while  Bcausire,  squar- 
ing himself  on  his  little  legs,  gave  his  arm  to 
Mme.  Roland,  who  felt  giddy  at  the  gulf  before 
her. 

Roland  and  Pierre  came  last,  and  the  doctor 
had  to  drag  his  father  down,  for  his  brain  reeled 
so  that  he  could  only  slip  down  sitting,  from  step 
to  step. 

The  two  young  peo])le  who  led  the  wav  went 
fast  till   on  a  sudden  they  saw,  by  the  side  of  a 

142 


fT 


Pierre   and  Jean 

wooden  bench  whicli  aiïordcd  a  resting-place  about 
half-wav  down  the  slope,  a  thread  of  clear  water, 
springing  from  a  crevice  in  the  clifT.  It  f(  11  into 
a  hollow  as  large  as  a  washing  basin  which  it  had 
worn  in  the  stone  ;  then,  falling  in  a  cascade, 
hardly  two  feet  high,  it  trickled  across  the  foot- 
path which  it  had  carpeted  with  cresses,  and  was 
lost  among  the  briers  and  grass  on  the  raised  shelf 
where  the  boulders  were  piled. 

"Oh,  I  am  so  thirsty  !"  cried  Mme.  Rosémilly. 

But  how  could  she  drink  ?  She  tried  to  catch 
the  water  in  her  hand,  but  it  slipped  au^ay  between 
her  fingers.  Jean  had  an  idea  ;  he  placed  a  stone 
on  the  path  and  on  this  she  knelt  down  to  put  her 
lips  to  the  spring  itself,  which  was  thus  on  the 
same  level. 

When  she  raised  her  head,  covered  with  mvri- 
ads  of  tiny  drops,  sprinkled  all  over  her  face,  her 
hair,  her  eye-lashes,  and  her  dress,  Jean  bent  over 
her  and  murmured  :  "  IIow  pretty  you  look  !" 

She  answered  in  the  tone  in  which  she  might 
have  scolded  a  child  : 

"Will  you  be  quiet?" 

These  were  the  first  words  of  flirtation  they 
had  ever  exchanged. 

"Come,"  said  Jean,  much  agitated.  "Let  us. 
go  on  before  they  come  up  with  us." 

143 


Picric   aiul  Jean 

Vor  \n  fact  they  could  sec  (juite  near  them 
now  Captain  Bcausirc  as  he  came  down,  hack- 
wanl,  so  as  to  give  botli  liands  to  Mme.  Roland  ; 
and  further  up,  further  olT,  Roland  still  letting 
himself  slip,  lowering  himself  t)n  his  hams  and 
clinging  on  with  his  hantls  and  elbows  at  the  sj)eed 
of  a  tortoise,  Pierre  keeping  in  front  of  him  to 
watch  his  movements. 

The  path,  now  less  steep,  was  here  almost  a 
road,  zigzagging  between  the  huge  rocks  which 
had  at  some  former  time  rolled  from  the  hill-top. 
Mme.  Rosémilly  and  Jean  set  off  at  a  run  and 
they  were  soon  on  the  beach.  They  crossed  it  and 
reached  the  rocks,  which  stretched  in  a  long  and 
flat  expanse  covered  with  sea-weed,  and  broken  by 
endless  gleaming  pools.  The  ebbed  waters  lay  be- 
yond, very  far  away,  across  this  plain  of  slimy 
weed,  of  a  black  and  shining  olive  green. 

Jean  rolled  up  his  trousers  above  his  calf,  and 
his  sleeves  to  his  elbows,  that  he  might  get  wet 
without  caring  ;  then  saying  :  "  Forward  !  "  he 
leaped  boldly  into  the  first  tide-pool  they  came  to. 

The  lady,  more  cautious,  though  fully  intend- 
ing to  go  in  too,  presently,  made  her  way  round 
the  little  pond,  stepping  timidly,  for  she  slipped 
on  the  grassy  weed. 

"  Do  you  see  anything  ?"  she  asked. 
144 


Pierre  and  Jean 


'•  Yes,  I  see  your  face  reflected  in  the  water." 

"  If  tliat  is  all  you  sec,  you  will  not  have  good 
fishing." 

He  murmured  tenderly  in  reply  : 

"  Of  all  fishing  it  is  that  I  should  like  best  to 
succeed  in." 

She  laughed  :  "Try  ;  you  will  see  how  it  will 
slip  through  your  net." 

"  But  yet— if  you  will?" 

"  I  will  see  you  catch  prawns — and  nothing 
else — for  the  moment." 

'•  You  are  cruel — let  us  go  a  little  farther, 
there  are  none  here." 

He  gave  her  his  hand  to  steady  her  on  the 
slippery  rocks.  She  leaned  on  him  rather  timidly, 
and  he  suddenly  felt  himself  overpowered  by  love 
and  insurgent  with  passion,  as  if  the  fever  that 
had  been  incubating  in  him  had  waited  till  to-day 
to  declare  its  presence. 

They  soon  came  to  a  deeper  rift,  in  which  long 
slender  weeds,  fantastically  tinted,  like  floating 
green  and  rose-coloured  hair,  were  swaying  under 
the  quivering  water  as  it  trickled  ofT  to  the  distant 
sea  through  some  invisible  crevice. 

Mme.  Rosémilly  cried  out  :  "  Look,  look,  I 
see  one,  a  big  one.  A  very  big  one,  just  there  !" 
He  saw  it  too,  and  stepped  boldly  into  the  pool, 

145 


Pierre   and    ]eaii 

though  lie  got  wtt  up  to  the  waist.  But  llie 
crcaluro,  waving  its  long  whiskers,  gently  relireil 
in  front  of  the  net.  Jean  drove  it  towards  tiie 
sca-wecd,  making  sure  of  iiis  l)rey.  When  it 
found  itself  blockaded  it  rose  with  a  dart  over 
tiie  net,  shot  across  the  mere,  and  was  gone.  The 
young  woman,  who  was  watching  the  chase  in 
great  excitement,  could  not  helj)  exclaiming  : 
"  Oh  !     Clumsy  !  " 

He  was  vexed,  and  without  a  moment's  thought 
dragged  his  net  over  a  hole  full  of  weed.  As  he 
brought  it  to  the  surface  again  he  saw  in  it  three 
large  transparent  prawns,  caught  blindfold  in  their 
hiding-place. 

He  offered  them  in  triumph  to  Mme.  Rosé- 
milly,  who  was  afraid  to  touch  them,  for  fear  of  the 
sharp,  serrated  crest  which  arms  their  heads.  Mow- 
ever,  she  made  up  her  mind  to  it,  and  taking  them 
up  by  the  tip  of  their  long  whiskers  she  dropped 
them  one  by  one  into  her  creel,  with  a  little  sea- 
weed to  keep  them  alive.  Then,  having  found  a 
shallower  pool  of  water,  she  stepped  in  with  some 
hesitation,  for  the  cold  plunge  of  her  feet  took  her 
breath  away,  and  began  to  fish  on  her  own  account. 
She  was  dextrous  and  artful,  with  the  light  hand  and 
tiie  hunter's  instinct  which  are  indispensable.  At 
almost  every  dij)  she  brought  up  some  prawns,  be- 

146 


Pierre   and  Jedii 


guilcd   and    surprised    by    her    iii^^eniuusly  gentle 
pursuit. 

Jean  now  caught  nothing  ;  hut  he  followed  her, 
step  by  step,  touched  her  now  and  again,  bent  over 
her,  pretended  great  distress  at  his  own  awkward- 
ness, and  besought  her  to  teach  him. 

"  Show  me,"  he  kept  saying.     "  Show  me  how." 

And  then,  as  their  two  faces  were  reflected  side 
by  side  in  water  so  clear  that  the  black  weeds  at 
the  bottom  made  a  mirror,  Jean  smiled  at  the  face 
which  looked  up  at  him  from  the  dejjth,  and  now 
and  then  from  his  fmger-tips  blew  it  a  kiss  which 
seemed  to  light  upon  it. 

"  Oh  !  how  tiresome  you  are  !  "  she  exclaimed. 
"  My  dear  fellow,  you  should  never  do  two  things 
at  once." 

He  replied:  "I  am  only  doing  one — loving 
you." 

She  drew  herself  up  and  said  gravely  : 

"  What  has  come  over  you  these  ten  minutes  ; 
have  you  lost  your  wits  ?" 

"  No,  I  have  not  lost  my  wits.  I  love  you, 
and  at  last  I  dare  to  tell  you  so." 

They  were  at  this  moment  both  standing  in 
the  salt  pool  wet  half-way  up  to  their  knees  and 
with  dripping  hands,  holding  their  nets.  They 
looked  into  each  other's  eyes. 

H7 


Pierre  and  ]can 


She  wont  on  in  a  tone  of  amused  anno\ancc. 

"How  very  ill-advised  to  tell  nie  so  here  and 
now  !  Could  you  not  wait  till  another  day  instead 
of  spoiling  my  fishing?" 

"Forgive  me,"  he  murmured,  "hut  1  eould  not 
longer  hold  mv  j)eace.  I  have  loved  you  a  long 
time.  To-day  you  have  intoxicated  me  and  I  lost 
my  reason." 

Then  suddenly  she  seemed  to  have  resigned 
herself  to  talk  business  and  think  no  more  of 
pleasure. 

"  Let  us  sit  down  on  that  stone,"  said  she,  "  we 
can  talk  more  comfortably."  They  scrambled  up 
a  rather  high  boulder,  and  when  they  had  settled 
themselves  side  by  side  in  the  bright  sunshine,  she 
began  again  : 

"  My  good  friend,  you  are  no  longer  a  child, 
and  I  am  not  a  young  girl.  Wc  both  know  per- 
fectly well  what  we  are  about  and  v.'e  can  weigh 
the  consequences  of  our  actions.  If  you  have 
made  up  vour  mind  to  make  love  to  me  to-day  I 
must  naturally  infer  that  you  wish  to  marry  me." 

lie  was  not  i)r('j)ari'{l  for  this  matter-of-fact 
statement  of  tiie  case,  and  he  answi'red  blandly  : 

"  Why,  yes." 

"  Have  you  mentioned  it  to  your  father  and 
mother  ?" 

148 


Pierre  and  )caii 

"  No,  I  wanted  to  know  lirst  whether  you 
would  aceept  me." 

She  lield  oui  her  liand,  whieh  was  still  wet,  and 
as  he  eagerly  elasped  it  : 

"  I  am  ready  and  willing,"  she  said.  "  I  be- 
lieve you  to  be  kind  and  true-hearted.  But 
remember,  I  should  not  like  to  disj)lease  your 
parents." 

"  Oh,  do  you  think  that  my  mother  has  never 
foreseen  it,  or  that  she  would  be  as  fond  of  you  as 
she  is  if  she  did  not  hope  that  you  and  I  should 
marry  ?  " 

"  That  is  true.     I  am  a  little  disturbed." 

They  said  no  more.  He,  for  his  part,  was 
amazed  at  her  being  so  little  disturbed,  so  rational. 
He  had  expected  pretty  little  flirting  ways,  refusals 
which  meant  yes,  a  whole  coquettish  comedy  of 
love  chequered  by  prawn-fishing  in  the  splashing 
water.  And  it  was  all  over  ;  he  was  pledged,  mar- 
ried with  twenty  words.  They  had  no  more  to 
say  about  it  since  they  were  agreed,  and  they  now 
sat,  both  somewhat  embarrassed  by  wliat  had  so 
swiftly  passed  between  them  ;  a  little  perplexed, 
indeed,  not  daring  to  speak,  not  daring  to  fish,  not 
knowing  what  to  do. 

Roland's  voice  rescued  them. 

"  This  way,   this  way,   children.      Come   and 
149 


1  iLire   aiul    ]<jdn 

UMich  Bcausirc.  Tlic  fellow  is  j)i)sitivtly  clearing 
out  I  he  sea  !  " 

The  captain  had,  in  fact,  had  a  wonderful  haul. 
Wet  above  his  hips  he  waded  from  }iool  to  j)ool, 
recognising  the  likeliest  spots  at  a  glance,  and 
searching  all  the  hollows  hidden  under  sca-wccd, 
with  a  steady  slow  sweep  of  his  net.  And  the 
beautiful  transparent,  sandy-gray  ])rawns  skipped 
in  his  palm  as  he  picked  them  out  of  the  net  with 
a  dry  jerk  and  put  them  into  his  creel.  Mme. 
Rosémilly,  surprised  and  delighted,  remained  at 
his  side,  almost  forgetful  of  her  promise  to  Jean, 
who  followed  them  in  a  dream,  giving  herself  up 
entirely  to  the  childish  enjoyment  of  pulling  the 
creatures  out  from  among  the  waving  sea-grasses. 

Roland  suddenly  exclaimed  : 

"  Ah,  here  comes  Mme.  Roland  to  join  us." 

She  had  remained  at  first  on  the  beach  with 
Pierre,  for  they  had  neither  of  tluiii  any  wish  to 
play  at  running  about  among  the  rocks  and  pad- 
dling in  the  tide-pools  ;  and  yet  they  had  felt  doubt- 
ful about  staying  together.  She  was  afraid  of  him, 
and  her  son  was  afraid  of  her  and  of  himself  ;  afraid 
of  his  own  cruelty  which  he  could  not  control. 
But  they  sat  down  side  by  side  on  the  stones. 
And  both  of  them,  under  the  heat  of  llie  sun,  mit- 
igated by   the  sea-breexe,  gazing  at   the  wiile,  fair 

150 


Pierre   and  Jean 

horizon  of  blue  water  streaked  and  shot  with  silver, 
thought  as  if  in  unison:  "How  delightful  this 
would  hav^c  been — once." 

She  did  not  venture  to  speak  to  Pierre,  know- 
in<r  that  he  would  return  some  hard  answer  ;  and 
he  dared  not  address  his  mother,  knowing  that  in 
spite  of  himself  he  should  speak  violently.  He 
sat  twitching  the  water-worn  pebbles  with  the  end 
of  his  cane,  switching  them  and  turning  them  over. 
She,  with  a  vague  look  in  her  eyes,  had  picked  up 
three  or  four  little  stones  and  was  slowly  and  me- 
chanically dropping  them  from  one  hand  into  the 
other.  Then  her  unsettled  gaze,  wandering  over 
the  scene  before  her,  discerned,  among  the  weedy 
rocks,  her  son  Jean  fishing  with  Mme.  Rosémilly. 
She  looked  at  them,  watching  their  movements, 
dimly  understanding,  with  motherly  instinct,  that 
they  wxre  talking  as  they  did  not  talk  every  day. 
She  saw  them  leaning  over  side  by  side  when  they 
looked  into  the  water,  standing  face  to  face  when 
they  questioned  their  hearts,  then  scrambled  up  the 
rock  and  seated  themselves  to  come  to  an  under- 
standing. Their  figures  stood  out  very  sharply, 
looking  as  if  they  were  alone  in  the  middle  of  the 
wide  horizon,  and  assuming  a  sort  of  symbolic 
dignity  in  that  vast  expanse  of  sky  and  sea  and 
cliff. 

151 


Pierre   and  Jean 

Pierre,  too,  was  lookin<i^  al  them,  and  a  harsh 
laugh  suddenly  broke  frt)ni  his  lips.  Without 
tinniuL::  to  him  Mme.  Roland  said  : 

-What  is  it?" 

He  spoke  with  a  sneer. 

"  I  am  learning.  Learning  how  a  man  lays 
himself  out  to  be  cozened  by  his  wife." 

She  Hushed  with  rage,  exasperated  by  the  in- 
sinuation she  believed  was  intended. 

"  In  whose  name  do  you  say  that  ?" 

"  In  Jean's,  by  Heaven  !  It  is  immensely  funny 
to  sec  those  two." 

She  murmured  in  a  low  voice,  tremulous  with 
feeling:  "O  Pierre,  how  cruel  you  are!  That 
woman  is  honesty  itself.  Your  brother  could  not 
fmd  a  better." 

He  laughed  aloud,  a  hard,  satirical  laugh: 

"lia!  hah!  hah!  I  lonesty  itself  !  All  wives 
arc  honesty  itself — and  all  husbands  are — be- 
trayed."    And  he  shouted  with  laughter. 

She  made  no  replv.  but  rose,  hastily  went  down 
the  sloping  beach,  and  at  the  risk  of  tumbling  into 
one  of  the  rifts  hidden  by  the  sea-weed,  of  break- 
ing a  leg  or  an  arm,  she  hastened,  almost  running, 
plunging  through  the  pools  without  looking, 
straight  to  her  other  son. 

Seeing  her  approach,  Jean  called  out  : 
152 


Pierre   and    )e:iii 


"  W'tll,  mother  ?  So  you  have  made  the  cfToit  ?" 

\\'illK)Lit  a  word  she  seized  liim  1)\'  the  arm,  as 
if  to  say  :  "  Save  mc,  protect  me  !  " 

lie  saw  lier  agitation,  and  greatly  surprised  he 
said  : 

"  How  pale  you  are  !     What  is  the  matter?" 

She  stammered  out  : 

"  I  was  nearly  falling  ;  I  was  frightened  at  the 
rocks."  , 

So  then  Jean  guided  her,  supported  her,  ex- 
plained the  sport  to  her  that  she  might  take  an 
interest  in  it.  But  as  she  scarcely  heeded  him, 
and  as  he  was  bursting  with  the  desire  to  confide 
in  some  one,  he  led  her  away  and  in  a  low  voice 
said  to  her  : 

"  Guess  wdiat  I  have  done  !  " 

"  But— what— I  don't  know." 

"  Guess." 

"  I  cannot.      I  don't  know." 

"  Well,  I  have  told  Mme.  Rosémilly  that  I  wish 
to  marry  her." 

She  did  not  answer,  for  her  brain  was  buzzing, 
her  mind  in  such  distress  that  she  could  scarcely 
take  it  in.     She  echoed  :  "  Marry  her  ?" 

"  Yes.  Have  I  done  well  ?  She  is  charming, 
do  not  you  think  ?" 

"  Yes,  charming.     You  have  done  very  well." 
153 


Pierre   and  Jeun 

"  Then  you  approve  ?  " 

"  Vcs,  I  api)rovc." 

"  But  how  strangely  you  say  so  !  I  could  fancy 
that — tiiat  you  were  not  glad." 

"  Ves,  indeed,  I  am — very  glad." 

"  Really  and  truly?" 

"  Really  and  truly." 

And  to  prove  it  she  threw  her  arms  round  him 
and, kissed  him  heartily,  with  warm  motherly  kisses. 
Then,  when  she  had  wiped  her  eyes,  which  were 
full  of  tears,  she  observed  upon  the  beach  a  man 
lying  flat  at  full  length  like  a  dead  body,  his  face 
hidden  against  the  stones;  it  was  the  other  one, 
Pierre,  sunk  in  thought  and  desperation. 

At  this  she  led  her  little  Jean  farther  away, 
quite  to  the  edge  of  the  waves,  and  there  tiiey 
talked  for  a  long  time  of  this  marriage  on  which 
he  had  set  his  heart. 

The  rising  tide  drove  them  back  to  rejoin  the 
fishers,  and  then  they  all  made  their  way  to  the 
shore.  They  roused  Pierre,  who  pretended  to  be 
sleeping  ;  and  then  came  a  long  dinner  washed 
down  with  many  kinds  of  wine. 


154 


CHAPTER   VII 

Ix  the  break,  on  their  way  home,  all  the  men 
dozed  excepting  Jean.  Beausire  and  Roland 
dropped  every  five  minutes  on  to  a  neighbour's 
shoulder  which  rei)elled  them  with  a  shove.  Then 
they  sat  up,  ceased  to  snore,  opened  their  eyes, 
muttered,  "  A  lovely  evening  !"  and  almost  imme- 
diately fell  over  on  the  other  side. 

By  the  time  they  reached  Havre  their  drowsi- 
ness was  so  heavy  that  they  had  great  difficulty  in 
shaking  it  off,  and  Beausire  even  refused  to  go  to 
Jean's  rooms  where  tea  was  waiting  for  them.  He 
had  to  be  set  down  at  his  own  door. 

The  young  lawyer  was  to  sleep  in  his  new 
abode  for  the  first  time  ;  and  he  was  full  of  rather 
puerile  glee  which  had  suddenly  come  over  him, 
at  being  able,  that  very  evening,  to  show  his  be- 
trothed the  rooms  she  was  so  soon  to  inhabit. 

The  maid  had  gone  to  bed,  Mme.  Roland  hav- 
ing declared  that  she  herself  would  boil  the  water 
and  make  the  tea,  for  she  did  not  like  the  servants 
to  be  kept  up  for  fear  of  fire. 

IS5 


Pierre   and    )e.iii 

No  one  liad  yet  been  into  tlic  lodgings  but 
licisclf,  Jean,  and  the  workmen,  tliat  tlie  smpiisc 
might  be  the  greater  at  their  being  so  pretty. 

Jean  begged  them  all  to  wait  a  moment  in  the 
ante-room.  lie  wanted  to  liglit  the  lamps  and 
candles,  and  he  left  Mme.  Rose-milly  in  the  dark 
with  his  father  and  brother;  then  he  cried: 
"  Come  in  !  "  opening  the  double  door  to  its  full 
width. 

The  glass  gallery,  lighted  by  a  chandelier  and 
little  coloured  lamps  hidden  among  palms,  india- 
rubber  j)lants,  and  flowers,  was  first  seen  like  a 
scene  on  the  stage.  There  was  a  spasm  of  sur- 
prise. Roland,  dazzled  by  such  lu.xury,  muttered 
an  oath,  and  felt  inclined  to  clap  his  hands  as 
if  it  were  a  pantomime  scene.  They  then  went 
into  the  fust  drawing-room,  a  small  room  hung 
with  dead  gold  and  furnished  to  match.  The 
larger  drawing-room  —  the  lawyer's  consulting- 
room,  very  simple,  hung  with  light  salmon-colour 
— was  dignified  in  style. 

Jean  sat  down  in  his  arm-chair  in  front  of  his 
writing-table  loaded  with  books,  and  in  a  solemn, 
rather  stilted  tone,  he  began  : 

"  ^'es,  madame,  the  letter  of  the  law  is  ex- 
plicit, and,  assuming  the  consent  I  j)romised  you, 
it  affords  mc  absolute  certainty  that  the  matter  we 

156 


Pierre  and  Jean 


discussed  will  cumc  to  a  happy  conclusion  within 
three  nujuths." 

lie  looked  at  Mme.  Ivosémilly,  who  began  to 
smile  and  j^laneed  at  Mme.  Roland.  Mme.  Ko- 
Luul  took  her  hand  and  pressed  it.  Jean,  in  high 
spirits,  cut  a  caper  like  a  school-boy,  exclaiming  : 
"  1 1  ah  !  How  well  the  voice  carries  in  this  room  ; 
it  would  be  capital  for  speaking  in." 

And  he  declaimed  : 

"If  humanity  alone,  if  the  instinct  of  natural 
benevolence  which  we  feel  towards  all  who  suffer, 
were  the  motive  of  the  acquittal  we  expect  of  you, 
I  should  appeal  to  your  compassion,  gentlemen  of 
the  jury,  to  your  hearts  as  fathers  and  as  men  ;  but 
we  have  law  on  our  side,  and  it  is  the  point  of  law 
only  which  we  shall  submit  to  your  judgment." 

Pierre  was  looking  at  this  home  which  might 
have  been  his,  and  he  was  restive  under  his 
brother's  frolics,  thinking  him  really  too  silly  and 
witless. 

Mme.  Roland  opened  a  door  on  the  right. 

"This  is  the  bed-room,"  said  she. 

She  had  dev^oted  herself  to  its  decoration  with 
all  her  mother's  love.  The  hangings  were  of 
Rouen  cretonne  imitating  old  Normandy  chintz, 
and  the  Louis  XV.  design — a  shepherdess,  in  a 
medallion  held  in  the  beaks  of  a  pair  of  doves — 

157 


Pierre   aiul   |eaii 

o^ave  llic  walls,  curtains,  bed,  and  arm-chairs  a  fes- 
tive, rustic  style  that  was  extremely  j)relly  ! 

"Oh,  how  charming:!"  Mim-.  Rt)sémilly  ex- 
claimed, bccuming;  a  little  serious  as  they  entered 
the  room. 

"  Do  you  like  it  ?"  asked  Jean. 

"  Immensely." 

"  You  cannot  imagine  how  glad  I  am." 

They  looked  at  each  other  for  a  second,  with 
confiding  tenderness  in  the  depths  of  their  eyes. 

She  had  felt  a  little  awkward,  however,  a  little 
abashed,  in  this  room  which  was  to  be  hers.  She 
noticed  as  she  went  in  that  the  bed  was  a  large 
one,  quite  a  family  bed,  chosen  by  Mme.  Roland, 
who  had  no  doubt  foreseen  and  hoped  that  her 
son  should  soon  marry  ;  and  this  motherly  fore- 
sight pleased  her,  for  it  seemed  to  tell  her  that  she 
was  expected  in  the  family. 

When  they  had  returned  to  the  drawing-room 
Jean  abruptly  threw  open  the  door  to  the  left, 
showing  the  circular  dining-room  with  three  win- 
dows, and  decorated  to  imitate  a  Chinese  lantern. 
Mother  and  son  had  here  lavished  all  the  fancy  of 
which  thev  were  capable,  and  the  room,  with  its 
bamboo  furniture,  its  mandarins,  jars,  silk  hang- 
ings glistening  with  gold,  transj)arcnt  blinds 
threaded  with  beads  looking  like  drojis  of  water, 

158 


Pierre    and  Jean 

funs  nailed  to  the  wall  to  drape  the  liangings  on, 
screens,  swords,  masks,  cranes  made  of  real 
feathers,  and  a  myriad  trifles  in  china,  wood,  i)a{)er, 
ivory,  mother-of-pearl,  and  bronze,  had  the  preten- 
tious and  extravagant  aspect  which  unpractised 
hands  and  uneducated  eyes  inevitably  stamp  on 
things  which  need  the  utmost  tact,  taste,  and 
artistic  education.  Nevertheless  it  was  the  most 
admired  ;  only  Pierre  made  some  observations 
with  rather  bitter  irony  which  hurt  his  brother's 
feelings. 

Pyramids  of  fruit  stood  on  the  table  and 
monuments  of  cakes.  No  one  was  hungry  ;  they 
picked  at  the  fruit  and  nibbled  at  the  cakes  rather 
than  ate  them.  Then,  at  the  end  of  about  an 
hour,  Mme.  Rosémilly  begged  to  take  leave.  It 
was  decided  that  old  Roland  should  accompany 
her  home  and  set  out  with  her  forthwith  ;  while 
Mme.  Roland,  in  the  maid's  absence,  should  cast 
a  maternal  eye  over  the  house  and  see  that  her 
son  had  all  he  needed. 

"Shall  I  come  back  for  you?"  asked  Roland. 

She  hesitated  a  moment  and  then  said  :  "  No, 
dear  old  man  ;  go  to  bed.  Pierre  will  sec  me 
home." 

As  soon  as  they  were  gone  she  blew  out  the 
candles,    locked    up    the    cakes,    the   sugar,   and 

159 


Pierre   aiui   )ean 

liqueurs  in  a  cupboard  of  whicli  slu-  t^avr  tlu-  key 
to  Jean  ;  llicn  she  went  into  the  bed-room,  turned 
down  tiie  bi-d,  saw  that  there  was  fresh  water  in 
the  water-bottle,  and  tliat  tlie  window  was  prop- 
erly closed. 

Pierre  and  Jean  had  remained  in  the  little  outer 
drawing-room  ;  the  younger  still  sore  under  the 
criticism  passed  on  his  taste,  and  the  elder  chafuig 
more  and  more  at  seeing  his  brother  in  this  abode. 
They  both  sat  smoking  without  a  word.  Pierre 
suddenly  started  to  his  feet. 

"  Cristi  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  The  widow  looked 
very  jaded  this  evening.  Long  excursions  do  not 
improve  her." 

Jean  felt  his  spirit  rising  with  one  of  those 
sudden  and  furious  rages  which  boil  up  in  easy- 
going natures  when  they  are  wounded  to  the 
quick.  He  could  hardly  hnd  breath  to  speak,  so 
fierce  was  his  excitement,  and  he  stammered  out  : 

"I  f(jrbid  you  ever  again  to  say  'the  widow' 
when  you  speak  of  Mme.  Rosémilly." 

Pierre  turned  on  him  haughtily  : 

"  Vou  are  giving  me  an  order,  1  believe.  Are 
you  gone  mad  by  any  chance  ?" 

Jean  had  pulled  himself  up. 

"  I  am  not  gone  mad,  but  I  have  had  enough 
of  your  manners  to  me." 

160 


Pierre   and  )can 

Pierre  sneered  :  "To  you  ?  And  arc  you  any 
part  of  Mme.  Rosémilly  ?" 

"  Vou  arc  to  know  tliat  Mme.  Rosémilly  is 
about  to  become  my  wife." 

Pierre  laughed  the  louder. 

"  Ah  !  ha  !  Very  good.  I  understand  now 
why  I  should  no  longer  speak  of  her  as  '  the  widow.' 
But  you  have  taken  a  strange  way  of  announcing 
your  engagement." 

"  I  forbid  any  jesting  about  it.  Do  you  hear  ? 
I  forbid  it." 

Jean  had  come  close  up  to  him,  pale,  and  his 
voice  quivering  with  exasperation  at  this  irony  lev- 
elled at  the  woman  he  loved  and  had  chosen. 

But  on  a  sudden  Pierre  turned  equally  furious. 
All  the  accumulation  of  impotent  rage,  of  sup- 
pressed malignity,  of  rebellion  choked  down  for  so 
long  past,  all  his  unspoken  despair  mounted  to  his 
brain,  bewildering  it  like  a  fit. 

"  How  dare  you?  I  Tow  dare  you  ?  I  order 
you  to  hold  your  tongue — do  you  hear  ?  I  order 
you." 

Jean,  startled  by  his  violence,  was  silent  for  a 
few  seconds,  trying  in  the  confusion  of  mind  which 
comes  of  rage  to  hit  on  the  thing,  the  phrase,  the 
word,  which  might  stab  his  brother  to  the  heart. 
He  went  on,  with  an  elTort  to  control  himself  that 
"  i6i 


l"*icrrc   aiul   )caii 

he  might   aim   true,  and   to   speak   slowly  that  the 
words  might  hit  more  kii-nly  : 

*'  I  have  known  for  a  long  time  that  you  were 
jealous  of  me,  ever  since  the  day  when  you  fnst 
began  to  talk  of  'the  widow'  because  you  knew 
it  annoyed  me." 

Pierre  broke  into  one  of  those  stridint  and 
scornful  laughs  which  were  common  w  ith  him. 

"All!  ah!  (iood  Heavens!  Jealous  of  you! 
I  ?  I  ?  And  of  what  ?  Good  God  !  Of  your  per- 
son or  your  mind  ?" 

But  Jean  knew  full  well  that  he  had  touched 
the  wound  in  his  soul. 

"  Ves,  jealous  of  me — jealous  from  your  child- 
hood up.  And  it  became  fury  when  you  saw  that 
this  woman  liked  me  best  and  would  have  nothing 
to  say  to  you." 

Pierre,  stung  to  the  (|uick  by  this  assumj)lion, 
stuttered  out  : 

"I  ?  I  ?  Jealous  of  you  ?  And  for  the  sake  of 
that  goose,  that  gaby,  that  simpUton  ?" 

jean,  seeing  that  he  was  aiming  true,  went  on  : 

"  And  how  about  the  day  when  you  tried  to 
j.ull  me  round  in  the  Pearl  ?  And  all  you  said  in 
her  presence  to  show  ofT  ?  Why,  you  are  bursting 
with  jealousy  !  And  when  this  money  was  left  to 
mc  you  were  maddened,  you  hated  me,  you  showed 

162 


Pierre  and  Jean 

it  in  every  possible  way,  and  madi-  every  one  sufTcr 
fur  it  ;  not  an  hour  passes  tliat  you  do  not  spil  out 
the  l)ile  tliat  is  choking  you." 

Pierre  clinched  his  fist  in  his  fury  with  an  al- 
most irresistible  impulse  to  lly  at  liis  brcjtlier  and 
seize  him  by  the  throat. 

"  Hold  your  tongue,"  he  cried.  "At  least  say 
nothing  about  that  money." 

Jean  went  on  : 

"  Why  your  jealousy  oozes  out  at  every  pore. 
You  never  say  a  word  to  my  fatiicr,  my  mother,  or 
me  that  docs  not  declare  it  plainly.  You  pretend 
to  despise  me  because  you  are  jealous.  You  try 
to  pick  a  quarrel  with  every  one  because  you  are 
jealous.  And  now  that  I  am  rich  you  can  no 
longer  contain  yourself  ;  you  have  become  venom- 
ous, you  torture  our  poor  mother  as  if  she  were  to 
blame  !  " 

Pierre  had  retired  step  by  step  as  far  as  the  fire- 
place, his  mouth  lialf  ojicn,  his  eyes  glaring,  a  prey 
to  one  of  those  mad  fits  of  passion  in  which  a  crime 
is  committed. 

lie  said  again  in  a  lower  tone,  gasping  for 
breath  :  "  Hold  your  tongue — for  God's  sake  hold 
your  tongue  ! " 

"  No  !  For  a  long  time  I  liavc  been  wanting 
to  give  you  my  whole  mind  !  }ou  have  given  me 

163 


Pierre  and  Jean 

nn  open i ne: — ^^  mucli  the  worse  for  you.  1  love 
the  woman;  you  know  it,  and  h\ugli  lier  to  scorn 
in  my  presence — so  much  the  worse  for  you.  Hut 
I  will  break  vour  viper's  fangs,  I  tell  you.  I  will 
make  vou  treat  me  with  respect." 

•*  Witii  respect — you  ?  " 

"  Ï  cs — me. 

"  Respect  you  ?  You,  who  liave  brought  shame 
on  us  all  by  your  greed." 

"  You  sav ?     Say  it  again — again." 

"  I  say  that  it  does  not  do  to  accept  one  man's 
fortune  when  another  is  reputed  to  be  your  father." 

Jean  stood  rigid,  not  understanding,  dazed  by 
the  insinuation  he  scented. 

"  What  ?     Repeat  that  once  more." 

"  I  say — what  everybody  is  muttering,  what 
every  gossip  is  blabbing — that  you  are  I  lie  son  of 
the  man  who  left  you  his  fortune.  Well,  then — a 
decent  man  does  not  take  tiie  mcMiey  which  brings 
dishonour  on  his  mother." 

"  Pierre  !  Pierre  !  Pierre  !  Tiiink  what  you  are 
saying.  You  ?  Is  it  you  who  give  utterance  to 
this  infamous  thing  ?" 

"Yes,  I.  It  is  I.  Have  vou  not  seen  me 
crushed  with  woe  this  month  i)ast,  spending  my 
nights  without  slecj)  and  mv  davs  in  Unking  out 
of  sight   like   an   animal?      I    iiardly  know  what  I 

164 


Pierre  and  Jean 


am  doin<^  or  what  will  become  (;f  mc,  so  miscrahlc 
am  I,  so  crazed  with  shame  and  grief  ;  for  lirst  I 
guessed — and  now  1  know  it," 

"Pierre!  Be  silent.  Mother  is  in  the  next 
room.     Remember  she  may  hear — she  must  hear." 

But  Pierre  felt  that  he  must  unburden  his 
heart.  lie  told  Jean  all  his  susj)icions,  his  argu- 
ments, his  struggles,  his  assurance,  and  the  history 
of  the  portrait — which  had  again  disappeared.  He 
spoke  in  short  broken  sentences  almost  without 
coherence — the  language  of  a  sleep-walker. 

He  seemed  to  have  quite  forgotten  Jean,  and 
his  mother  in  the  adjoining  room.  He  talked  as 
if  no  one  were  listening,  because  he  must  talk,  be- 
cause he  had  suffered  too  much  and  smothered  and 
closed  the  wound  too  tightly.  It  had  festered  like 
an  abscess  and  the  abscess  had  burst,  splashing 
every  one.  He  was  pacing  the  room  in  the  way 
he  almost  always  did,  his  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy, 
gesticulating  in  a  frenzy  of  despair,  his  voice 
choked  with  tearless  sobs  and  revulsions  of  self- 
loathing  ;  he  spoke  as  if  he  were  making  a  con- 
fession of  his  own  misery  and  that  of  his  nearest 
kin,  as  though  he  were  casting  his  woes  to  the  deaf, 
invisible  winds  which  bore  away  his  words. 

Jean,  distracted  and  almost  convinced  on  a 
sudden  by  his  brother's  blind  vehemence,  was  lean- 

165 


Pierre   aiul   ]ean 

ing  against  tlu-  door  bcliind  which,  as  hc  guessed, 
tlîcir  mother  had  heard  them. 

Slic  could  not  get  out,  slic  must  come  tlirough 
his  room.  Slie  liad  not  come  ;  then  it  was  because 
she  dare  not. 

Suddenly  Pierre  stamped  his  foot. 

"  I  am  a  brute,"  he  cried,  "  to  have  told  you 
this." 

And  he  fled,  bare-headed,  down  the  stairs. 

The  noise  of  the  front-door  closing  with  a  slam 
roused  Jean  from  the  deep  stupor  into  which  he 
had  fallen.  Some  seconds  had  elapsed,  longer 
than  hours,  and  his  spirit  had  sunk  into  the  numb 
torpor  of  idiocy.  1  le  was  conscious,  indeed,  that 
he  must  presently  think  and  act,  but  he  would 
wait,  refusing  to  understand,  to  know,  to  remem- 
ber, out  of  fear,  weakness,  cowardice.  He  was 
one  of  thcjse  j^rocrastinators  who  put  everything 
ofT  till  to-morrow  ;  and  when  he  was  compelled  to 
come  to  a  decision  then  antl  there,  still  he  instinc- 
tively tried  to  gain  a  few  minutes. 

But  the  perfect  silence  which  now  reigned, 
after  Pierre's  vociferations,  the  sudden  stillness  of 
walls  and  furniture,  with  the  bright  light  of  six 
wax  candles  and  two  lami)s,  terrified  him  so  great- 
ly that  he  suddenly  longed  to  make  his  escape 
too. 

i66 


Pierre  and  Jean 


Then  he  roused  his  brain,  rcjused  his  liearL,  ami 
tried  to  reflect. 

Never  in  his  life  liad  lie  had  to  face  a  difficulty. 
There  are  men  who  let  themselves  glide  onward 
like  runnin<r  water.  He  had  been  duteous  over 
his  tasks  for  fear  of  punishment,  and  had  got 
through  his  legal  studies  with  credit  because  his 
existence  was  tranquil.  Everything  in  the  world 
seemed  to  him  quite  natural  and  never  aroused  his 
particular  attention.  He  loved  order,  steadiness, 
and  peace,  by  temi)erament,  his  nature  having  no 
complications  ;  and  face  to  face  with  this  catas- 
trophe, he  found  himself  like  ;i  uvaw  who  has  fallen 
into  the  water  and  cannot  swim. 

At  first  he  tried  to  be  incredulous.  His 
brother  had  told  a  lie,  out  of  hatred  and  jealousy. 
But  yet,  how  could  he  have  been  so  vile  as  to  say 
such  a  thing  of  their  mother  if  he  had  not  him- 
self been  distraught  by  despair  ?  Besides,  stamped 
on  Jean's  ear,  on  his  sight,  on  his  nerves,  on  the 
inmost  fibres  of  his  flesh,  were  certain  words, 
certain  tones  of  anguish,  certain  gestures  of 
Pierre's,  so  full  of  sufïerinof  that  the\'  were  irre- 
sistibly  convincing  ;  as  incontrovertible  as  certain- 
ty itself. 

He  was  too  much  crushed  to  stir  or  even  to  will. 
His  distress  became  unbearable  ;  and  he  knew  that 

167 


Pierre   aiul    |e:iil 

bcliind  llic  door  was  liis  mol  lier  who    li.ul  heard 
cvcrvlliinir  and  was  waitiuL!:. 

What  was  slic  doinjj:?  Not  a  movement,  not 
a  sluuldcr,  not  a  brcatli,  not  a  si^ll  revealed  the 
presence  of  a  livin<x  creature  heiiind  that  jiancl. 
Could  she  have  run  away?  Hut  how?  If  she 
had  run  away — she  must  have  jumi)e(l  out  of  the 
window  into  tlie  street.  A  shock  of  tirror  roused 
l^ipn — so  violent  and  imperious  that  he  diove  the 
door  in  rather  than  ojiened  it,  and  Hung  himself 
into  the  hed-room. 

It  was  apparently  empty,  lighted  hy  a  single 
candle  standing  on  the  chest  of  drawers. 

Jean  flew  to  the  window  ;  it  was  shut  and  the 
shutters  bolted.  lie  looked  about  him,  i)eering 
into  the  dark  corners  with  anxious  eyes,  and  he 
then  noticed  that  the  bed-curtains  were  drawn. 
He  ran  forward  and  opened  them.  His  mother 
was  lying  on  the  bed,  her  face  buried  in  the  i)illow 
whieli  she  had  pulled  uj)  over  her  ears  that  she 
might  hear  no  more. 

At  first  he  thought  she  had  smothered  herself. 
Then,  taking  her  by  the  shoulders,  he  turned  her 
over  without  her  leaving  go  of  the  i)illow,  which 
covered  her  face,  and  in  which  she  had  set  her 
teeth  to  keep  herself  from  crying  out. 

But  the  mere  toueli  of  this  rigid  form,  of  those 
168 


Pierre  and  Jean 

arms  so  convulsively  clinched,  communicated  to 
him  I  lie  shock  of  Irt  unspeakable  tcjiture.  The 
strength  and  determination  with  which  she  clutched 
the  linen  case  full  of  feathers  with  her  hands  and 
teeth,  over  her  mouth  and  eyes  and  ears,  that  he 
might  neither  sec  her  nor  speak  to  her,  gave  him  an 
idea,  by  the  turmoil  it  roused  in  him,  of  the  pitch 
suffering  may  rise  to,  and  his  heart,  his  simple  heart, 
was  torn  with  pity.  He  was  no  judge,  not  he  ;  not 
even  a  merciful  judge;  he  was  a  man  full  of  weak- 
ness and  a  son  full  of  love.  He  remembered  noth- 
ino-  of  what  his  brother  had  told  hini  ;  he  neither 
reasoned  nor  argued,  he  merely  laid  his  two  hands 
on  his  mother's  inert  body,  and  not  being  able  to 
pull  the  pillow  away,  he  exclaimed,  kissing  her 
dress  : 

"  Mother,  mother,  my  poor  mother,  look  at 

me!" 

She  would  have  seemed  to  be  dead  but  that  an 
almost  imperceptible  shudder  ran  through  all  her 
limbs,  the  vibration  of  a  strained  cord.  And  he 
repeated  : 

"Mother,  mother,  listen  to  me.  It  is  not  true. 
I  know  that  it  is  not  true." 

A  spasm  seemed  to  come  over  her,  a  fit  of  suf- 
focation ;  then  she  suddenly  began  to  sob  into  the 
pillow.      Her  sinews   relaxed,   her  rigid  muscles 

1C9 


Pierre   and    jean 

yielded,  her  fingers  gave  way  ami   Icfl   v:o  of  the 
linen  ;  and  he  uncoveretl  her  face. 

She  was  pale,  (juite  colourless  ;  and  from  under 
her  closed  lids  tears  were  stealing,  lie  threw  his 
arms  round  her  neck  and  kissed  her  eyes,  slowly, 
with  long  heart-broken  kisses,  wet  with  her  tears; 
and  he  said  again  and  again  : 

"Mother,  my  clear  mother,  I  know  il  is  not 
true.     Do  not  cry  ;  1  know  il.      It  is  not  true." 

She  raised  herself,  she  sat  up,  looked  in  his 
face,  and  with  an  effort  of  courage  such  as  it  must 
cost  in  some  cases  to  kill  one's  self,  she  said  : 

"  No,  my  child  ;  it  is  true." 

And  they  remained  speechless,  each  in  the 
presence  of  the  other.  For  some  minutes  she 
seemed  again  to  be  suffocating,  craning  her  throat 
and  throwing  back  her  head  to  get  breath  ;  then 
she  once  more  mastered  herself  and  went  on  : 

"  It  is  true,  my  child.  Why  lie  about  it  ?  It 
is  true.     \'ou  wtnild  not  believe  me  if  I  denied  it." 

She  looked  like  a  crazy  creature.  Overcome 
by  alarm,  he  fell  on  his  knees  by  the  bedside, 
murmuring  : 

"  Hush,  mother,  be  silent."  She  stood  up  with 
terrible  determination  and  energy. 

"  I  have  nothing  more  to  say,  my  child.  Good- 
bye."    And  she  went  towards  the  door. 

1 70 


Pierre   and   ]ean 

He  threw  his  arms  about  her  exclaiming  : 
"What  arc  you  doing,  moLlicr  ;  wiicrc  arc  you 
going?" 

"  I  do  not  know.  TTow  should  I  know — 
There  is  nothing  left  for  me  to  do,  now  that  I 
am  alone." 

She  struggled  to  be  released.  Holding  her 
firmly,  he  could  find  only  words  to  say  again 
and  again  : 

"  Mother,  mother,  mother  !  "  And  through  all 
her  e (Torts  to  free  herself  she  was  saying  : 

"  No,  no.  I  am  not  your  mother  now.  I  am 
nothing  to  you,  to  anybody — nothing,  nothing. 
You  have  neither  father  nor  mother  now,  poor 
boy — good-bye.  " 

It  struck  him  clearly  that  if  he  let  her  go  now 
he  should  never  see  her  again  ;  lifting  her  up  in 
his  arms  he  carried  her  to  an  arm-chair,  forced  her 
into  it,  and  kneeling  down  in  front  of  her  barred 
her  in  with  his  arms. 

"  You  shall  not  quit  this  spot,  mother.  I  love 
you  and  I  will  keep  you  !  I  will  keep  you  always 
— I  love  you  and  you  are  mine." 

She  murmured  in  a  dejected  tone  : 
"  No,  my  poor  boy,  it  is  impossible.   You  weep 
to-night,  but  to-morrow  you  would  turn  me  out  of 
the  house.     You,  even  you,  could  not  forgive  me." 

171 


Pierre   and   )ean 

Ile  replied:  "1?  1?  1  low  little  you  know 
me  !"  with  such  a  hurst  uf  {genuine  alTccliun  that, 
wit  11  a  crv.  she  seized  his  head  by  the  hair  with 
both  liands,  and  dragging  him  violently  to  her 
kissed  him  distractedly  all  over  his  face. 

Then  she  sat  still,  her  cheek  against  his,  feeling 
the  warmth  of  his  skin  through  his  beard,  and  she 
whispered  in  his  ear:  "No,  my  little  Jean,  you 
would  not  forgive  me  to-morrow.  You  think  so, 
but  you  deceive  yourself.  You  have  forgiven  mc 
this  evening,  and  that  forgiveness  has  saved  my 
life  ;  but  you  must  never  see  mc  again," 

And  he  repeated,  clasping  her  in  his  arms  : 

"Mother,  do  not  say  that." 

"  Yes,  my  child,  I  must  go  away.  I  do  not 
know  where,  nor  how  I  shall  set  about  it,  nor 
what  I  shall  do  ;  but  it  must  be  done.  I  could 
never  look  at  you,  nor  kiss  you,  do  you  under- 
stand ?" 

Then  lie  in  his  turn  spoke  into  her  car  : 

"  My  little  mother,  you  are  to  stay,  because  I 
insist,  because  I  want  you.  And  you  must  pledge 
your  word  to  obcv  me,  now,  at  once." 

"  No,  my  child." 

"Yes,  mother,  you  must  ;  do  you  hear?  You 
must." 

"No,  my  child,  it  is  im|)0ssible.      It  wouKl  be 


172 


Pierre  and  Jean 

condemning  us  all  lu  the  torlurcs  of  lu-ll.  I  know 
what  that  torment  is;  I  have  known  il  this  month 
past.  Your  feelings  are  touehed  now,  hut  when 
that  is  over,  when  }'ou  look  on  me  as  Pierre  does, 
when  you  remember  what  I  have  told  you — oh, 
my  Jean,  think — think — I  am  your  mother!" 

"  I  will  not  let  you  leave  me,  mother.  I  have 
no  one  but  you." 

"  But  think,  my  son,  we  can  never  see  each 
other  again  without  both  of  us  blushing,  without 
my  feeling  that  I  must  die  of  shame,  without  my 
eyes  falling  before  yours." 

"But  it  is  not  so,  mother." 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes,  it  is  so  !  Oh,  I  have  under- 
stood all  your  poor  brother's  struggles,  believe 
me  !  All — from  the  very  first  day.  Now,  when 
I  hear  his  step  in  the  house  my  heart  beats  as  if  it 
would  burst,  when  I  hear  his  voice  I  am  ready  to 
faint.  I  still  had  you  ;  now  I  have  you  no  longer. 
Oh,  my  little  Jean  !  Do  you  think  I  could  live 
between  you  two  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  should  love  you  so  much  that  you 
would  cease  to  think  of  it." 

"As  if  that  were  possible  !" 

"  But  it  is  possible." 

"  How  do  you  suppose  that  I  could  cease  to 
think  of  it,  with   your  brother  and  you  on  each 

^7Z 


Pierre   aiul    )can 

liand  ?     Woiilil    ycui    ccasc  to  ihiuk   of    it,  I  ask 
yiui  ?  " 

"I  ?     I  swear  I  should." 

"Wliy  you  wouKl  think  of  it  at  every  hour  of 
the  day." 

"  No,  I  swear  it.  Resides,  listen,  if  you  go 
away  I  will  enlist  and  get  killed." 

This  boyish  threat  (juite  overcame  her  ;  she 
clasped  Jean  in  a  j)assionatc  and  tender  embrace. 
He  went  on  : 

"  I  love  you  more  than  you  think — ah,  much 
more,  much  more.  Come,  be  reasonable.  Try  to 
stay  for  only  one  week.  Will  you  promise  mc 
one  week  ?     You  cannot  refuse  me  that  ?" 

She  laid  her  two  hands  on  Jean's  shoulders, 
and  holding  him  at  arm's  length  she  said  : 

"  My  child,  let  us  try  and  be  calm  and  not  give 
way  to  emotions.  First,  listen  to  me.  If  I  were 
ever  to  hear  from  your  lips  what  1  have  heard  for 
this  month  past  from  your  brother,  if  I  were  once 
to  sec  in  your  eyes  what  1  read  in  his,  if  I  could 
fancy  froni  a  word  or  a  look  that  I  was  as  odious 
to  you  as  I  am  to  him — within  one  hour,  mark 
mc— within  one  hour  I  should  be  gone  forever." 

"  Mother,  I  swear  to  you " 

"Let  mc  speak.  For  a  month  past  1  have 
suffered  all  that  any  creature  can  suffer.    l*rom  the 

1/4 


Pierre  and    Jean 

moment  when  1  perceived  tliat  )'(nii'  hrolher,  my 
other  son,  suspected  me,  that  as  tlic  minutes  went 
by,  lie  guessed  the  trutli,  every  moment  of  my  Hfe 
has  been  a  martyrdom  wiiieh  no  words  could  tell 
you." 

Her  voice  was  so  full  of  woe  that  tiie  contagion 
of  her  misery  brought  the  tears  to  Jean's  eyes. 

He  tried  to  kiss  her,  but  she  held  him  ofï. 

"  Leave  me — listen  ;  I  still  have  so  much  to 
say  to  make  you  understand.  But  you  never  can 
understand.  You  see,  if  I  stayed — I  must — no,  no. 
I  cannot." 

"  Speak  on,  mother,  speak." 

"  Yes,  indeed,  for  at  least  I  shall  not  have  de- 
ceived you.  You  want  me  to  stay  with  you  ?  For 
what — for  us  to  be  able  to  sec  each  other,  speak  to 
each  other,  meet  at  any  hour  of  the  day  at  home, 
for  I  no  longer  dare  open  a  door  for  fear  of  finding 
your  brother  behind  it.  If  we  are  to  do  that,  you 
must  not  forgive  me — nothing  is  so  wounding  as 
forgiveness — but  you  must  owe  me  no  grudge  for 
what  I  have  done.  You  must  feel  yourself  strong 
enough,  and  so  far  unlike  the  rest  of  the  world,  as 
to  be  able  to  say  to  yourself  that  you  are  not  Ro- 
land's son  without  blushing  for  the  fact  or  despis- 
ing me.  I  have  suffered  enough — I  have  suffered 
too  much  ;    I    can    bear  no  more,  no  indeed,  no 


Pierre   and   jean 

more!     And   il  is  not  a  lliint;-  of  ycslcnhiy,  mind 
you,  but  of  Iow'j:,  long  years.     lUu  you  coukl  never 
understand  that  ;  how  should  you  !     If  you  and   I 
arc  to  live  together  and  kiss  each  other,  my  little 
Jean,  you  must   believe  that   though   I  was  your 
father's  mistress  I  was  yet  more  truly  his  wife,  his 
real  wife  ;  that,  at  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  I  can- 
not be  ashamed  of  it  ;  that  I  liave  no  regrets  ;  that 
I  love  him  still  even  in  death  ;  that  I  shall  always 
love  him  and  never  loved  any  other  man  ;  that  he 
was  my  life,  my  joy,  my  hope,  my  comfort,  every- 
thing— everything  in  the  world  to  me  for  so  long  ! 
Listen,  my  boy,  before  God,  who  hears  me,  I  should 
never  have  had  a  joy  in  my  existence  if  I  had  not 
met  him  ;  never  anything — not  a  touch  of  tender- 
ness or  kindness,  not  one   of   those   hours  which 
make    us    regret   growing   old — nothinij:.     I    owe 
everything  to  him  !     I   had  but   him  in  the  world, 
and   you  two  boys,  your  brother  and   you.      Hut 
for  you,  all   would   have   been   empty,  dark,  and 
void  as  the  night.      I  should  never  have  lovetl,  or 
known,  or  cared  for  anything — I  should  not  even 
have  wept — for  I   have  wept,  my  little  Jean;  oh, 
yes,  and  bitter  tears,  since  we  came  to  Havre.     I 
was  his  wholly  and  forever  ;  for  ten  \ cars  I  was  as 
much  his  wife  as  he  was  my  husband  before  (jod 
who  created  us  for  each  other.     And  then  I  began 

176 


Pierre   and  Jean 

to  sec  that  he  Icn'ed  nie  less.  He  was  always  kind 
and  courteous,  but  I  was  not  what  1  had  been  to 
him.  It  was  all  over!  Oh,  how  I  have  cried! 
How  dreadful  and  delusive  life  is  !  Nothing  lasts. 
Then  wc  came  here — I  never  saw  him  again  ;  he 
never  came.  He  promised  it  in  every  letter.  I 
was  always  expecting  him,  and  I  never  saw  him 
again — and  now  he  is  dead  !  But  he  still  cared  for 
us  since  he  remembered  you.  I  shall  love  him  to 
my  latest  breath,  and  I  never  will  deny  him,  and  I 
love  you  because  you  arc  his  child,  and  I  could 
never  be  ashamed  of  him  before  you.  Do  you  un- 
derstand ?  I  could  not.  So  if  you  wish  me  to  re- 
main you  must  accept  the  situation  as  his  son,  and 
we  will  talk  of  him  sometimes  ;  and  you  must  love 
him  a  little  and  we  must  think  of  him  when  we 
look  at  each  other.  If  you  will  not  do  this — if  you 
cannot — then  good-bye,  my  child  ;  it  is  impossible 
that  we  should  live  together.  Now,  I  will  act  by 
your  decision." 

Jean  replied  gently  : 

••  Stay,  mother." 

She  clasped  him  in  her  arms,  and  her  tears 
flowed  again  ;  then,  with  her  face  against  his,  she 
went  on  : 

"  Well,  but  Pierre.  What  can  wo  do  about 
Pierre?" 

1/7 


Pierre  and  Jean 


Jean  murmured  : 

"  \\\' will  find  some  jtlan  !  Voii  cannot  live 
with  him  any  luni^cr." 

At  the  thou^iit  of  her  elder  son  she  was  con- 
vulsed with  terror. 

"  No,  I  cannot  ;  no,  no  !"  .And  throwing  her- 
self on  Jean's  breast  she  cried  in  distress  of  mind  : 

"  Save  me  from  him,  you,  my  little  one.  Save 
me  ;  do  something — I  don't  know  what.  Think 
of  something.     Save  me." 

"  Yes,  mother,  I  wmII  think  of  something." 

"  And  at  once.  You  must,  this  minute.  Do 
not  leave  me.     I  am  so  afraid  of  him — so  afraid." 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  I  will  hit  on  some  plan.  I  promise 
you  I  will." 

"  But  at  once  ;  quick,  quick  !  You  cannot  im- 
agine what  I  feel  when  I  see  him." 

Then  she  murmured  softly  in  his  car  ;  "Keep 
me  here,  with  you." 

He  paused,  reflected,  and  with  his  blunt  good- 
sense  saw  at  once  the  dangers  of  such  an  arrange- 
ment. But  he  had  to  ar^^ue  for  a  lon<j:  time,  com- 
bating  her  scared,  terror-stricken  insistence. 

"  Only  for  to-night,"  she  said.  "  Only  for  to- 
night. And  to-morrow  morning  you  can  send 
word  to  Roland  that  I  was  taken  ill." 

"That  is  out  of  the  (juestion,  as  Pierre  left 
178 


Pierre  and  Jean 

you  here.  Come,  take  courage.  I  will  arran;:,'-c 
everything,  I  promise  you,  to-morrow  ;  I  will  j)c 
with  you  by  nine  o'clock.  Come,  put  or  your 
bonnet.     I  will  take  you  home." 

"  I  will  do  just  what  you  desire,"  she  said  with 
a  childlike  impulse  of  timidity  and  gratitude. 

She  tried  to  rise,  but  the  shock  had  been  too 
much  for  her  ;  she  could  not  stand. 

He  made  her  drink  some  sugared  water  and 
smell  at  some  salts,  while  he  bathed  her  temples 
with  vinegar.  She  let  him  do  what  he  would, 
exhausted,  but  comforted,  as  after  the  pains  of 
child-birth.  At  last  she  could  walk  and  she  took 
his  arm.  The  town  hall  clock  struck  three  as  they 
went  past. 

Outside  their  own  door  Jean  kissed  her,  say- 
ing : 

"  Good-night,  mother,  keep  up  your  courage." 
She  stealthily  crept  up  the  silent  stairs,  and 
into  her  room,  undressed  quickly,  and  slipped 
into  bed  with  a  reawakened  sense  of  that  lono-- 
forgotten  sin.  Roland  was  snoring.  In  all  the 
house  Pierre  alone  was  awake,  and  had  heard  her 
come  in. 


179 


CHAPTER   VIII 

When  he  or^t  back  to  his  lodQ^inp^s  Jean 
diop])cd  on  a  sofa  ;  for  the  sorrows  and  anxie- 
ties which  made  his  brother  long  to  be  moving, 
and  to  flee  like  a  iiuntcd  prey,  acted  differently 
on  his  torj)id  nature  and  broke  the  strength  of  his 
arms  and  legs.  lie  felt  too  limp  to  stir  a  finger, 
even  to  get  to  bed  ;  linij)  body  and  soul,  crushed 
and  heart-broken.  lie  had  not  been  hit,  as  Pierre 
had  been,  in  the  purity  of  filial  love,  in  the  secret 
dignity  which  is  the  refuge  of  a  proud  heart  ;  he 
was  overwhelmed  by  a  stroke  of  fate  which,  at  the 
same  time,  threatened  his  own  nearest  interests. 

When  at  last  his  spirit  was  calmer,  when  his 
thoughts  had  settled  like  water  that  has  been 
stirred  and  lashtcl,  he  could  contemj)late  the  situ- 
ation which  iiad  come  before  him.  If  he  had 
learned  the  secret  of  his  birtii  through  any  other 
channel  he  would  assuredly  have  been  very  wroth 
and  very  deeply  pained,  but  after  his  (juarrcl  with 
his  brother,  after  the  violent  and  brutal  betrayal 
which  had  shaken  his  nerves,  tiie  agonizing  cmo- 

i8o 


Pierre   and   |ean 

tion  of  his  niotlicr's  toiifcssion  had  so  hrrrft  him 
of  energy  that  he  could  not  rcbcL  Tlie  sliock  to 
his  fechngs  had  been  so  great  as  to  sweep  away  in 
an  irresistible  tide  of  pathos,  all  prejudice,  and  all 
the  sacred  delicacy  of  natural  morality.  Besides, 
he  was  not  a  man  made  for  resistance.  He  did 
not  like  contending  against  any  one,  least  of  all 
against  himself,  so  he  resigned  himself  at  once  ; 
and  by  instinctive  tendency,  a  congenital  love  of 
peace,  and  of  an  easy  and  tranquil  life,  he  began 
to  anticipate  the  agitations  which  must  surge  up 
around  him  and  at  once  be  his  ruin.  He  foresaw 
that  they  were  inevitable,  and  to  avert  them  he 
made  up  his  mind  to  superhuman  efforts  of  energy 
and  activity.  The  knot  must  be  cut  immediately, 
this  very  day  ;  for  even  he  had  fits  of  that  imperi- 
ous demand  for  a  swift  solution  which  is  the  only 
strength  of  weak  natures,  incapable  of  a  prolonged 
effort  of  will.  His  lawyer's  mind,  accustomed  as 
it  was  to  disentangling  and  studying  complicated 
situations  and  questions  of  domestic  difficulties  in 
families  that  had  got  out  of  gear,  at  once  foresaw 
the  more  immediate  consequences  of  his  brother's 
state  of  mind.  In  spite  of  himself,  he  looked  at 
the  issue  from  an  almost  professional  point  of 
view,  as  though  he  had  to  legislate  for  the  future 
relations  of  certain  clients  after  a  moral  disaster. 

iSi 


Pierre  and  Jean 

Constant  frictit)n  Uj^ainst  Pierre  luid  certainly  be- 
come unendurable,  lie  could  easily  evade  it,  no 
doubt,  by  living  in  bis  own  lodgings  ;  but  even 
then  it  was  not  possible  that  tiieir  mother  should 
live  under  the  same  roof  with  her  elder  son.  For 
a  long  time  he  sat  meditating,  motionless,  on  the 
cushions,  devising  and  rejecting  various  possibili- 
ties, and  finding  nothing  that  satisfied  him. 

But  suddenly  an  idea  took  him  by  storm.  This 
fortune  which  had  come  to  him.  Would  an  honest 
man  keep  it  ? 

"  No,"  was  tlic  hrst  immediate  answer,  and  he 
made  up  his  mind  that  it  must  go  to  the  poor.  It 
was  hard,  but  it  could  not  be  helped.  lie  would 
sell  his  furniture  and  work  like  any  other  man,  like 
any  other  beginner.  This  manful  and  painful  reso- 
lution spurred  his  courage  ;  he  rose  and  went  to 
the  window,  leaning  his  forehead  against  the  jxme. 
He  had  been  poor;  he  could  become  poor  again. 
After  all  he  should  not  die  of  it.  His  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  gas  lamp  burning  at  the  opposite  side 
of  the  street.  A  woman,  much  bel attd.  happened 
to  pass;  suddenly  h(^  tiiounjit  of  Mine,  l'^osémilly 
with  the  pang  at  his  heart,  the  shock  of  deep  feel- 
ing which  comes  of  a  cruel  suggestion.  All  the 
dire  results  of  his  decision  rose  uji  before  him  to- 
gether.     1  le  would  have  to  renounce  his  marriage, 

182 


Pierre  and  Jean 

renounce  happiness,  renounce  everything.  Could 
he  do  such  a  tiling  after  having  pledged  himself  to 
her?  She  had  accepted  him  knowing  him  to  be 
rich.  She  would  take  him  still  if  he  were  poor  ; 
but  had  he  any  right  to  demand  such  a  sacrifice  ? 
Would  it  not  be  better  to  keep  this  money  in  trust, 
to  be  restored  to  the  poor  at  some  future  date  ? 

And  in  his  soul,  where  selfishness  put  on  a  guise 
of  honesty,  all  these  specious  interests  were  strug- 
gling and  contending.  I  lis  first  scruples  yielded 
to  ingenious  reasoning,  then  came  to  the  top  again, 
and  again  disappeared. 

He  sat  down  again,  seeking  some  decisive  mo- 
tive, some  all-sufficient  pretext  to  solve  his  hesi- 
tancy and  convince  his  natural  rectitude.  Twenty 
times  over  had  he  asked  himself  this  question  : 
"  Since  I  am  this  man's  son,  since  I  know  and 
acknowledge  it,  is  it  not  natural  that  I  should  also 
accept  the  inheritance?" 

But  even  this  argument  could  not  suppress  the 
"  No  "  murmured  by  his  inmost  conscience. 

Then  came  the  thought  :  "  Since  I  am  not  the 
son  of  the  man  I  always  believed  to  be  my  father, 
I  can  take  nothing  from  him,  neither  during  his 
lifetime  nor  after  his  death.  It  would  be  neither 
dignified  nor  equitable.  It  would  be  robbing  my 
brother." 

183 


Pierre   aiul  Jean 

Tills  new  view  of  llic  in.ittn  liaviiiLT  relieved 
liim  and  (luieted  his  conscience,  he  went  U)  I  he 
window  again. 

"  Vcs,"  he  said  to  liimself,  "  T  nuist  give  up 
my  sliare  of  ihe  family  inherilanee.  1  must  let 
Pierre  have  the  whole  of  it,  since  1  am  not  his 
father's  son.  That  is  hut  just.  Then  is  it  not  just 
that  I  should  keep  my  father's  money  ?" 

Having  discerned  that  he  could  take  nothing 
of  Roland's  savings,  having  decided  on  giving  up 
the  whole  of  this  money,  he  agreed  ;  he  resigned 
himself  to  keeping  Marechal's  ;  for  if  he  rejected 
both  he  would  hnd  himself  reduced  to  beggary. 

This  delicate  question  being  thus  disposed  of 
he  came  back  to  that  of  Pierre's  presence  in  the 
family.  How  was  he  to  be  got  rid  of?  He  was 
giving  up  liis  search  for  any  practical  solution 
when  the  whistle  of  a  steam-vessel  coming  into 
port  seemed  to  blow  him  an  answer  by  suggesting 
a  scheme. 

Then  he  threw  himself  on  his  bed  without  un- 
dressing, and  dozed  and  dreamed  till  daybreak. 

At  a  little  before  nine  he  went  out  to  ascertain 
whether  his  plans  were  feasible.  Then,  after 
making  sundrv  inquiries  and  ealN,  he  went  to  his 
old  home.  His  mother  was  wailing  for  him  in 
her  room. 

184 


Pierre  and   jean 


"If  you  had  nut  come,"  she  said,  "  I  should 
never  have  dared  t(j  go  down." 

In  a  minute  Rohuid's  v(Mce  was  heard  on  tiie 
stairs  :  "  Arc  we  to  have  nothing  to  cat  to-day, 
hang  it  all  ?" 

There  was  no  answer,  and  he  roared  out,  with 
a  thundering  oath  tiiis  time  :  "  Joscl^phine,  what 
the  devil  are  you  about  ?" 

The  girl's  voice  came  up  from  the  depths  of 
the  basement. 

"  Yes,  m'sieu — what  is  it  ?" 

"  Where  is  your  Miss'es  ?" 

"  Madame  is  upstairs  with  M'sieu  Jean." 

Then  he  shouted,  looking  up  at  the  higher 
floor  :  "  Louise  !  " 

Mme.  Roland  half  opened  her  door  and  an- 
swered : 

"What  is  it,  my  dear?" 

"Are  we  to  have  nothing  to  cat  to-day,  hang 
it  all?" 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  I  am  coming." 

And  she  went  down,  followed  by  Jean. 

Roland,  as  soon  as  he  saw  him,  exclaimed  : 

"  Hallo  !  There  you  are  !  Sick  of  your  home 
already  ?  " 

"  No,  father,  but  I  had  something  to  talk  over 
with  mother  this  morning." 

185 


Pierre  and  Jean 


Jean  went  forward  hokling  out  his  lunul,  and 
when  lie  felt  his  fingers  in  the  old  man's  fatherly 
clasj\  a  strange,  unforeseen  emotion  thrilled 
through  him,  and  a  sense  as  of  parting  and  fare- 
well without  return. 

Mme.  Roland  asked  : 

"  Pierre  is  not  come  down  ?" 

Her  husband  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  No,  but  never  mind  him  ;  he  is  always  behind- 
hand.    \Ve  will  begin  without  him." 

She  turned  to  Jean  : 

"  Vou  had  better  go  to  call  him,  my  child  ;  it 
hurts  his  feelings  if  we  do  not  wait  for  him." 

"  Yes,  mother.     I  will  go." 

And  the  young  man  went.  He  mounted  the 
stairs  with  the  fevered  determination  of  a  man 
who  is  about  to  fight  a  duel  and  who  is  in  a 
fright.  When  he  knocked  at  the  door  Pierre 
said  : 

"  Come  in." 

He  went  in.  The  elder  was  writing,  leaning 
over  his  table. 

"  Good-morning,"  said  Jean. 

Pierre  rose. 

"Good-morning!"  and  they  shook  hands  as  if 
nothing  had  occurred. 

"Arc  you  not  coming  down  to  breakfast  ?" 
ii>6 


Pierre  and  Jean 

"Well — you  sec — I  liave  a  good  deal  to  do." 
The  elder  brother's  voice  was  tremulous,  and  his 
anxious  eye  asked  his  younger  brother  what  he 
meant  to  do. 

"  They  are  waiting  for  you." 

"  Oh  !     There  is — is  i  ly  mother  down  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  was  she  who  sent  me  to  fetch  you." 

"Ah,  very  well  ;  then  I  will  come." 

At  the  door  of  the  dining-room  he  paused, 
doubtful  about  going  in  first  ;  then  he  abruptly 
opened  the  door  and  saw  his  father  and  mother 
seated  at  the  table  opposite  each  other. 

He  went  straight  up  to  her  without  looking  at 
her  or  saying  a  word,  and  bending  over  her,  offered 
his  forehead  for  her  to  kiss,  as  he  had  done  for 
some  time  past,  instead  of  kissing  her  on  both 
cheeks  as  of  old.  He  supposed  that  she  put  her 
lips  near  but  he  did  not  feel  them  on  his  brow, 
and  he  straightened  himself  with  a  throbbing  heart 
after  this  feint  of  a  caress.     And  he  wondered  : 

"  What  did  they  say  to  each  other  after  I  had 
left?" 

Jean  constantly  addressed  her  tenderly  as 
"  mother,"  or  "  dear  mother,"  took  care  of  her, 
waited  on  her,  and  poured  out  her  wine. 

Then  Pierre  understood  that  they  had  wept  to- 
gether, but  he  could  not  read  their  minds.     Did 

187 


Pierre  and  Jcaii 

Jran  believe  in  his  iiiutiiei's  guill,  or  think  liis 
l)ruUu'r  a  base  wielcli  ? 

Anil  all  his  self-reproach  forhavinic:  uttered  the 
horrible  thinj^  came  upon  him  a^ain,  chokin<r  his 
throat  and  his  tongue,  and  j)reventing  liis  citiier 
eating  or  sjieaking. 

lie  was  now  a  prey  to  an  intolerable  desire  to 
fly,  to  leave  the  house  which  was  his  home  no 
longer,  and  these  persons  who  were  bound  to  him 
by  such  imperceptible  ties.  He  would  gladly  have 
been  ofi"  that  moment,  no  matter  whither,  feeling 
that  everything  was  over,  that  he  could  not  en- 
dure to  stay  with  them,  that  his  i)resence  was 
torture  to  them,  and  that  they  woultl  bring  on 
him  incessant  suffering  too  great  to  endure.  Jean 
was  talking,  chatting  with  Roland.  Pierre,  as  he 
did  not  listen,  did  not  hear.  But  he  presently 
was  aware  of  a  pointed  tone  in  his  brother's  voice 
and  paid  more  attention  to  his  words.  Jean  was 
saying  : 

"  She  will  be  the  finest  ship  in  their  fleet.  They 
say  she  is  of  6,500  tons.  She  is  to  make  her  first 
trip  next  month." 

Roland  was  amazed. 

"  So  soon  ?  I  thought  she  was  not  to  be  ready 
for  sea  this  summer." 

*'  Vcs.  The  work  has  been  pushed  forward  very 
i5ii 


Pierre   and   Jean 


vigorously,  to  get  her  through  her  first  voyage  be- 
fore the  uuluinn.  1  looked  in  at  the  Company's 
office  this  morning,  and  was  talking  to  one  of  the 
directors." 

"  Indeed  !    Whicli  of  them  ?  " 

"  M.  Marchand,  wiio  is  a  great  friend  of  the 
Chairman  of  the  Board." 

"  Oh  !     Do  you  know  him  ?" 

"  Yes.     And  I  wanted  to  ask  him  a  favour." 

"  Then  you  will  get  me  leave  to  go  over  every 
part  of  the  Lorraine  as  soon  as  she  comes  into 
port  ?  " 

"  To  be  sure  ;  nothing  can  be  easier." 

Then  Jean  seemed  to  hesitate,  to  be  weighing 
his  words,  and  to  want  to  lead  up  to  a  difficult  sub- 
ject.    He  went  on  : 

"  On  the  whole,  life  is  very  endurable  on  board 
those  great  Transatlantic  liners.  More  than  half 
the  time  is  spent  on  shore  in  two  splendid  cities — 
New  York  and  Havre  ;  and  the  remainder  at  sea 
with  delightful  company.  In  fact,  very  pleasant 
acquaintances  are  sometimes  made  among  the  pas- 
sengers, and  very  useful  in  after-life — yes,  really 
very  useful.  Only  think,  the  captain,  with  his  per- 
quisites on  coal,  can  make  as  much  as  twenty-five 
thousand  francs  a  year  or  more." 

Roland  muttered  an  oath  followed  by  a  whistle, 
1 89 


Pierre  and  Jean 


which  testified  to  liis  deep  rcsj-)cct  both  for  the  sum 
and  the  captain. 

Jean  went  on  : 

"  The  purser  makes  as  much  as  ten  thousand, 
and  tiie  doctor  lias  a  li.xcd  salary  of  live  thousand, 
with  lodi^ings,  keep,  light,  firing,  service,  and  ever)'- 
thing,  which  makes  it  uj)  to  ten  thousand  at  least. 
That  is  very  good  pay." 

Pierre  raising  his  eyes  met  his  brother's  and 
understood. 

Then,  after  some  hesitation,  he  asked  : 

"  Is  it  very  hard  to  get  a  place  as  medical  man 
on  board  a  Transatlantic  liner?" 

"  Yes — and  no.  It  all  depends  on  circum- 
stances and  recommendation." 

There  was  a  long  pause  ;  then  the  doctor  be- 
gan again. 

"  Next  month,  you  say,  the  Lorraine  is  to  sail  ?" 

••Yes.     On  the  7th." 

And  they  said  no  more. 

Pierre  was  considering.  It  certainly  would  be 
a  way  out  of  many  dilTiculties  if  he  could  embark 
as  medical  ofilcer  on  board  the  steamship.  By-and- 
by  he  could  see  ;  he  might  perhaps  give  it  up. 
Meanwhile  he  would  be  gaining  a  living,  and  ask- 
ing for  nothing  from  his  parents.  Only  two  days 
since  he  had  been  forced  to  sell  his  watch,  for  he 

ir>o 


Pierre  and  Jean 

would  no  longer  hold  out  his  iiand  to  beg  of  his 
mother.  So  he  liad  no  other  resource  left,  no 
opening  to  enable  him  to  eat  the  bread  of  any 
house  but  this  whieii  had  beeome  uninhabitable, 
or  sleep  in  any  other  bed,  or  under  any  other  roof. 
He  presently  said,  with  some  little  hesitation  : 

"  If  I  could,  I  would  very  gladly  sail  in  her." 

Jean  asked  : 

"What  should  hinder  you  ?" 

"  I  know  no  one  in  the  Transatlantic  Shipping 
Company." 

Roland  was  astounded. 

"And  what  has  become  of  all  your  fine  schemes 
for  getting  on  ?" 

Pierre  replied  in  a  low  voice: 

"  There  are  times  when  we  must  bring  ourselves 
to  sacrifice  everything  and  renounce  our  fondest 
hopes.  And  after  all  it  is  only  to  make  a  begin- 
ning, a  way  of  saving  a  few  thousand  francs  to 
start  fair  with  afterward." 

His  father  was  promptly  convinced. 

"That  is  very  true.  In  a  couple  of  years  you 
can  put  by  six  or  seven  thousand  francs,  and  that 
well  laid  out,  will  go  a  long  way.  What  do  you 
think  of  the  matter,  Louise?" 

She  replied  in  a  voice  so  low  as  to  be  scarcely 
audible  : 

191 


Pierre  and  Jean 

"  I  tliink  Pierre  is  right." 

Ruhiiul  exclaimed  : 

"  1  will  oro  and  talk  it  over  with  M.  Poulin  :  I 
kiidw  him  very  well.  He  is  assessor  of  the  Cham- 
ber of  Commerce  and  takes  an  interest  in  the 
afTairs  of  the  Company.  There  is  M.  Lenient,  too, 
the  ship-owner,  who  is  intimate  with  one  of  the 
vice-chairmen." 

Jean  asked  his  brother  : 

"Would  you  like  me  to  feel  my  way  with  M. 
Marchand  at  once  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  should  be  very  glad." 

After  thinking:  a  few  minutes  Pierre  added  : 

"  The  best  thing  1  can  do,  perhaps,  will  be  to 
write  to  my  professors  at  the  College  of  Medi- 
cine, who  had  a  great  regard  for  me.  Very  in- 
ferior men  arc  sometimes  shipped  on  board 
those  vessels.  Letters  of  strong  recommendation 
from  such  professors  as  M  as- Roussel,  Rémusot, 
Flachc,  and  Borriquel  would  do  more  for  me 
in  an  hour  than  all  the  d()ul)tful  introductions 
in  the  world.  It  would  be  enough  if  your 
friend  M.  Marchand  would  lay  them  before  the 
board." 

Jean  approved  heartily. 

"Your  idea  is  really  cai)ilal."  And  he  smiled, 
quite  reassured,  almost  happy,  sure  of  success  and 

102 


Pierre  and  Jean 


incapable  of  allowing  himself  to  he  unhappy  for 
long. 

"You  will  write  to-day?"  he  said. 

"  Directly.  Now  ;  at  once.  I  will  go  and  do 
so.  I  do  not  care  for  any  cofïce  this  morning;  I 
am  too  nervous." 

He  rose  and  left  the  room. 

Then  Jean  turned  to  his  mother: 

"And  you,  mother,  what  are  you  going  to 
do?" 

"  Nothing.     I  do  not  know." 

"Will  you  come  with  me  to  call  on  Mme. 
Rosémilly  ?  " 

"Why,  yes — yes." 

"  You  know  I  must  positively  go  to  see  her 
to-day." 

"  Yes,  yes.     To  be  sure." 

"Why  must  you  positively?"  asked  Roland, 
whose  habit  it  was  never  to  understand  what  was 
said  in  his  presence. 

"  Because  I  promised  her  I  would." 

"  Oh,  very  well.  That  alters  the  case."  And 
he  began  to  fill  his  pipe,  while  the  mother  and  son 
went  upstairs  to  make  ready. 

When  they  were  in  the  street  Jean  said  : 

"  Will  you  take  my  arm,  mother  ?  " 

He  was  never  accustomed  to  offer  it,  for  they 
13  193 


Pierre   iind  Jean 

were  in  tlic  habit  of  walkinj;-  side  by  side.     She 
accepted,  and  leaned  on  liini. 

For  some  time  they  did  not  speak  ;  then  he 
said  : 

"  You  sec  that  Pierre  is  quite  ready  and  willing 
to  go  away." 

She  murmured  : 

"  Poor  boy  !  " 

"  But  why  '  poor  boy  '  ?  He  will  not  be  in  the 
least  unhappy  on  board  the  Lorraine." 

"  No — I  know.  But  I  was  thinking  of  so 
many  things." 

And  she  thought  for  a  long  time,  her  head 
bent,  accommodating  her  step  to  her  son's  ;  then, 
in  the  peculiar  voice  in  which  wc  sometimes  give 
utterance  to  the  conclusion  of  long  and  secret 
meditations,  she  exclaimed  : 

"  How  horrible  life  is  !  If  by  any  chance  we 
come  across  any  sweetness  in  it,  we  sin  in  letting 
ourselves  be  happy,  and  pay  dearly  for  it  after- 
ward." 

He  said  in  a  whisper'. 

"  Do  not  speak  of  that  any  more,  mother." 

"  Is  that  possible  ?     I  think  of  nothing  else." 

"  Vou  will  forget  it." 

Again  slie  was  silent  ;  then  with  deep  regret 
she  said  : 

194 


Pierre  and  Jean 

"  How  haj)|)y  1  might  have  been,  married  to 
another  man  !  " 

She  was  visiting  it  on  Roland  now,  throwing 
all  the  responsibility  of  her  sin  on  his  ugliness,  his 
stupidity,  his  clumsiness,  the  heaviness  of  his  in- 
tellect, and  the  vulgarity  of  his  i)erson.  It  was  to 
this  that  it  was  owing  that  she  had  betrayed  him, 
had  driven  one  son  to  desperation,  and  had  been 
forced  to  utter  to  the  other  the  most  agonizing 
confession  that  can  make  a  mother's  heart  bleed. 
She  muttered  :  "  It  is  so  frightful  for  a  young  girl 
to  have  to  marry  such  a  husband  as  mine." 

Jean  made  no  reply.  He  was  thinking  of  the 
man  he  had  hitherto  believed  to  be  his  father; 
and  possibly  the  vague  notion  he  had  long  since 
conceived,  of  that  father's  inferiority,  with  his 
brother's  constant  irony,  the  scornful  indifference 
of  others,  and  the  very  maid-servant's  contempt 
for  Roland,  had  somewhat  prepared  his  mind  for 
his  mother's  terrible  avowal.  It  had  all  made  it 
less  dreadful  to  him  to  find  that  he  was  another 
man's  son  ;  and  if,  after  the  great  shock  and  agita- 
tion of  the  previous  evening,  he  had  not  suffered 
the  reaction  of  rage,  indignation,  and  rebellion 
which  Mme.  Roland  had  feared,  it  was  because  he 
had  long  been  unconsciously  chafing  under  the 
sense  of  being  the  child  of  this  well-meaning  lout. 

195 


Pierre   and  jean 

They  had  now  readied  the  dwelling  of  Mnic. 

Rosémilly. 

She  lived  on  the  road  lo  Saintc-Adrcssc,  on 
the  second  floor  of  a  large  tenement  which  she 
owned.  The  windows  commanded  a  view  of  the 
whole  roadstead. 

On  seeing  Mme.  Roland,  who  entered  first,  in- 
stead of  merely  holding  out  her  hands  as  usual, 
she  put  her  arms  round  her  and  kissed  her,  for  she 
divined  the  purpose  of  her  visit. 

The  furniture  of  this  drawing-room,  all  in 
stamped  velvet,  was  always  shrouded  in  chair- 
covers.  The  walls,  hung  with  flowered  paper, 
were  graced  by  four  engravings,  the  purchase  of 
her  late  husband,  the  captain.  They  represented 
sentimental  scenes  of  seafaring  life.  In  the  first  a 
fisherman's  wife  was  seen,  waving  a  handkerchief 
on  shore,  while  the  vessel  which  bore  away  her 
husband  vanished  on  the  horizon.  In  the  second 
the  same  woman,  on  her  knees  on  the  same  shore, 
under  a  sky  shot  with  lightning,  wrung  her  arms 
as  she  gazed  into  the  distance  at  her  husband's 
boat  which  was  going  to  the  bottom  amid  impos- 
sible waves. 

The  others  represented  similar  scenes  in  a 
higher  rank  of  society.  A  young  lady  with  fair 
hair,  resting  her  elbows   on   the   edge  of  a  large 

196 


Pierre  and  Tcan 


steamship  quitting  the  shore,  gazed  at  the  already 
distant  coast  with  eyes  full  of  tears  and  regret. 
Whom  is  she  leaving  behind  ? 

Then  the  same  young  lady  sitting  hy  an  ()i)en 
window  with  a  view  of  the  sea,  had  fainted  in  an 
arm-chair  ;  a  letter  she  had  dropped  lay  at  her  feet. 
So  he  is  dead  !     What  despair  ! 

Visitors  were  generally  much  moved  and 
charmed  by  the  commonplace  pathos  of  these  ob- 
vious and  sentimental  works.  They  w^ere  at  once 
intelligible  without  question  or  explanation,  and 
the  poor  women  were  to  be  pitied,  though  the 
nature  of  the  grief  of  the  more  elegant  of  the  two 
was  not  precisely  known.  But  this  very  doubt 
contributed  to  the  sentiment.  She  had,  no  doubt, 
lost  her  lover.  On  entering  the  room  the  eye  was 
immediately  attracted  to  these  four  pictures,  and 
riveted  as  if  fascinated.  If  it  wandered  it  was 
only  to  return  and  contemplate  the  four  expres- 
sions on  the  faces  of  the  tw^o  women,  who  were  as 
like  each  other  as  two  sisters.  And  the  very  style 
of  these  works,  in  their  shining  frames,  crisp, 
sharp,  and  highly  finished,  with  the  elegance  of  a 
fashion  plate,  suggested  a  sense  of  cleanliness  and 
propriety  which  was  confirmed  by  the  rest  of  the 
fittings.  The  seats  were  always  in  precisely  the 
same  order,  some  against  the  wall  and  some  round 

197 


Pierre   and   )ean 

the  circular  ccntrc-talilc.  The  iininaculately  white 
curtains  hun<j^  in  sucii  straight  and  rc<j^ular  pleats 
that  one  lunged  lo  crumple  them  a  little  ;  and 
never  did  a  grain  of  dust  rest  on  the  shade  under 
which  the  gilt  clock,  in  the  taste  of  the  first  em- 
pire— a  terrestrial  globe  supported  by  Atlas  on 
his  knees — looked  like  a  melon  left  there  to 
ripen. 

The  two  women  as  they  sat  down  somewhat 
altered  the  normal  position  of  their  chairs. 

"You  have  not  been  out  this  niorning?"  asked 
Mme.  Roland. 

"  No.    I  must  own  to  being  rather  tired." 

And  she  spoke  as  if  in  gratitude  to  Jean  and 
his  mother,  of  all  the  pleasure  she  had  derived  from 
the  expedition  and  the  prawn-fishing. 

"  I  ate  my  prawns  this  morning,"  she  added, 
"  and  they  were  excellent.  I  f  you  felt  inclined  we 
might  go  again  one  of  these  days." 

The  young  man  interrupted  her: 

"  Before  we  start  on  a  second  fishing  excursion, 
suppose  we  complete  the  first  ?" 

"  Complete  it  ?    It  seems  to  me  quite  finished." 

"  Nay,  madame,  I.  for  my  part,  caught  some- 
thing on  the  rocks  of  Saint  Jouain  which  I  am  anx- 
ious to  carry  home  with  me." 

She  put  on  an  innocent  and  knowing  look. 
198 


Pierre  and  Jean 


"  You  ?  What  can  it  he  ?  What  can  you  have 
found  ?  " 

"  A  wife.  And  my  mother  and  I  have  come 
to  ask  you  whether  she  has  changed  her  mind  this 
morning." 

She  smiled  :  "  No,  monsieur.  I  never  change 
my  mind." 

And  then  he  held  out  his  hand,  wide  open,  and 
she  put  hers  into  it  with  a  quick,  determined 
movement.  Then  he  said  :  "  As  soon  as  possible, 
I  hope." 

"  As  soon  as  you  like." 

"  In  six  weeks  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  opinion.  What  does  my  future 
mother-in-law  say  ?  " 

Mme.  Roland  replied  with  a  rather  melancholy 
smile  : 

"I  ?  Oh,  I  can  say  nothing.  I  can  only  thank 
you  for  having  accepted  Jean,  for  you  will  make 
him  very  happy." 

"  We  will  do  our  best,  mamma." 

Somewhat  overcome,  for  the  first  time,  Mme. 
Rosémilly  rose,  and  throwing  her  arms  round 
Mme.  Roland,  kissed  her  a  long  time  as  a  child 
of  her  own  might  have  done  ;  and  under  this 
new  embrace  the  poor  woman's  sick  heart  swelled 
with   deep   emotion.      She   could    not   have    ex- 

199 


Pierre  iind  ]ean 

pressed  tlic  feeling;  it  was  at  once  sad  and  sweet. 
Slie  had  lost  her  son,  her  big  boy,  but  in  re- 
turn she  had  found  a  daughter,  a  grown-uj)  daugh- 
ter. 

When  they  faced  each  other  again,  and  were 
seated,  they  took  hands  and  remained  so,  looking 
at  each  other  and  smiling,  while  they  seemed  to 
have  forgotten  Jean. 

Then  they  discussed  a  number  of  things  which 
had  to  be  thought  of  in  view  of  an  early  marriage, 
and  when  everything  was  settled  and  decided 
Mme.  Rosémilly  seemed  suddenly  to  remember 
a  further  detail  and  asked  :  "  You  have  consulted 
M.  Roland,  I  suppose?" 

A  flush  of  colour  mounted  at  the  same  instant 
to  the  face  of  both  mother  and  son.  It  was  the 
mother  who  replied  : 

"  Oh,  no,  it  is  quite  unnecessary  !  "  Then  she 
hesitated,  feeling  that  some  e.\i)lanation  was 
needed,  and  added:  "We  do  everything  with- 
out saying  anything  to  him.  It  is  enough  to 
tell  him  what  we  have  decided  on." 

Mme.  Rosémilly,  not  in  liie  least  surprised, 
only  smiled,  taking  it  as  a  matter  of  course,  for 
the  good  man  counted  for  so  little. 

When  Mme.  Ivoland  was  in  llie  street  again 
with  her  son  she  said  : 

200 


Pierre  and  Jean 

"  Suppose  \vc  g(j  to  your  rooms  for  a  little 
while.     I  should  be  glad  to  rest." 

She  felt  herself  homeless,  shelterless,  her  own 
house  being  a  terror  to  her. 

They  went  into  Jean's  apartments. 

As  soon  as  the  door  w^as  closed  upon  her  she 
heaved  a  deep  sigh,  as  if  that  bolt  had  placed  her 
in  safety,  but  then,  instead  of  resting  as  she  had 
said,  she  began  to  open  the  cupboards,  to  count 
the  piles  of  linen,  the  pocket-handkerchiefs,  and 
socks.  She  changed  the  arrangement  to  place 
them  in  more  harmonious  order,  more  pleasing  to 
her  housekeeper's  eye  ;  and  when  she  had  put 
everything  to  her  mind,  laying  out  the  towels,  the 
shirts,  and  the  drawers  on  their  several  shelves  and 
dividing  all  the  linen  into  three  principal  classes, 
body-linen,  household-linen,  and  table-linen,  she 
drew  back  and  contemplated  the  results,  and 
called  out  : 

"Come  here,  Jean,  and  see  how  nice  it  looks." 

He  went  and  admired  it  to  please  her. 

On  a  sudden,  when  he  had  sat  down  again,  she 
came  softly  up  behind  his  arm-chair,  and  putting 
her  right  arm  round  his  neck  she  kissed  him,  while 
she  laid  on  the  chimney-shelf  a  small  packet 
wrapped  in  white  paper  which  she  held  in  the 
other  hand. 

201 


Pierre  and  Jean 


"What  is  that  ?"  he  asked.  Then,  as  she  made 
no  reply,  he  understood,  recognising  the  shape  of 
the  frame. 

"  Give  it  mc  !  "  he  said. 

She  pretended  not  to  hear  him,  and  went  back 
to  the  hnen  cupboards.  lie  got  up  hastily,  took 
the  melancholy  relic,  and  going  across  the  room, 
put  it  in  the  drawer  of  his  writing-table,  which  he 
locked  and  double  locked.  She  wiped  away  a  tear 
with  the  tip  of  her  finger,  and  said  in  a  rather 
quavering  voice  :  "  Now  I  am  going  to  see 
whether  your  new  servant  keeps  the  kitchen  in 
good  order.  As  she  is  out  I  can  look  into  every- 
thing and  make  sure." 


202 


CHAriER   IX 

Letters  of  recommendation  from  Professors 
Mas-Roussel,  Rémusot,  Flache,  and  Borriquel, 
written  in  the  most  flattering  terms  with  regard 
to  Dr.  Pierre  Roland,  their  pupil,  had  been  sub- 
mitted by  M.  Marchand  to  the  directors  of  the 
Transatlantic  Shipping  Co.,  seconded  by  M.  Pou- 
lin,  judge  of  the  Chamber  of  Commerce,  M. 
Lenient,  a  great  ship-owner,  and  M.  Mari  val, 
deputy  to  the  Mayor  of  Havre,  and  a  particular 
friend  of  Captain  Beausire's.  It  proved  that  no 
medical  officer  had  yet  been  appointed  to  the 
Lorraine,  and  Pierre  was  lucky  enough  to  be 
nominated  within  a  few  days. 

The  letter  announcing  it  was  handed  to  him 
one  morning  by  Joséphine,  just  as  he  was  dressed. 
His  first  feeling  was  that  of  a  man  condemned  to 
death  who  is  told  that  his  sentence  is  commuted  ; 
he  had  an  immediate  sense  of  relief  at  the  thought 
of  his  early  departure  and  of  the  peaceful  life  on 
board,  cradled  by  the  rolling  waves,  always  wan- 
dering, always  moving.    His  life  under  his  father's 

203 


Pierre   and  Jean 

roof  was  now  thai  of  a  stranger,  silent  and  re- 
served. Ever  since  the  evening  when  he  allowed 
the  shameful  secret  he  had  discovered  to  escape 
him  in  his  brother's  presence,  he  had  felt  that  the 
last  ties  to  his  kindred  were  broken.  He  was  har- 
assed by  remorse  for  having  told  this  thing  to 
Jean.  He  felt  that  it  was  odious,  indecent,  and 
brutal,  and  yet  it  was  a  relief  to  him  to  have  ut- 
tered it. 

He  never  met  the  eyes  either  of  his  mother  or 
his  brother  ;  to  avoid  his  gaze  theirs  had  become 
surprisingly  alert,  with  tiie  cunning  of  foes  who 
fear  to  cross  each  other.  He  was  always  wonder- 
ing :  "  What  can  she  have  said  to  Jean  ?  Did  she 
confess  or  deny  it  ?  What  does  my  brother  be- 
lieve ?  What  does  he  think  of  her — what  does  he 
think  of  me  ?"  He  could  not  guess,  and  it  drove 
him  to  frenzy.  And  he  scarcely  ever  spoke  to 
them,  excepting  when  Roland  was  by,  to  avoid  his 
questioning. 

As  soon  as  he  received  the  letter  announcing 
his  appointment  he  showed  it  at  once  to  his 
family.  His  father,  who  was  {)rone  to  rejoic- 
ing over  cver)'thing,  clapped  his  hands.  Jean 
spoke  seriously,  though  his  heart  was  full  of 
gladness  :  "  I  congratulate  you  with  all  my  heart, 
for     T    know    there    were    several    other    candi- 

204 


Pierre  and  Jean 


dates.     You  certainly  owe  it  to  your  professors* 
letters." 

His  mother  bent  her  head  and  murmured  : 
"  I  am  very  glad  you  have  been  successful." 
After  breakfast  he  went  to  the  Company's  offi- 
ces to  obtain  information  on  various  particulars, 
and  he  asked  the  name  of  the  doctor  on  board  the 
Picardie,  which  was  to  sail  next  day,  to  inquire  of 
him  as  to  the  details  of  his  new  life  and  any  details 
he  might  think  useful. 

Dr.  Pirette  having  gone  on  board,  Pierre  went 
to  the  ship,  where  he  was  receiv^ed  in  a  little 
state-room  by  a  young  man  with  a  fair  beard,  not 
unlike  his  brother.  They  talked  together  a  long 
time. 

In  the  hollow  depths  of  the  huge  ship  they 
could  hear  a  confused  and  continuous  commotion  ; 
the  noise  of  bales  and  cases  pitched  down  into  the 
hold  mingling  with  footsteps,  voices,  the  creaking 
of  the  machinery  lowering  the  freight,  the  boat- 
swain's whistle,  and  the  clatter  of  chains  dragged 
or  wound  on  to  capstans  by  the  snorting  and  pant- 
ing engine  which  sent  a  slight  vibration  from  end 
to  end  of  the  great  vessel. 

But  when  Pierre  had  left  his  colleague  and 
found  himself  in  the  street  once  more,  a  new  form 
of  melancholy  came  down  on  him,  enveloping  him 

205 


Pierre  and  [can 

like  tlic  fon^s  which  roll  o\cr  the  sea,  coming  up 
from  tlie  eiuis  of  the  world  and  hulding  in  their 
intangible  density  something  mysteriously  impure, 
as  it  were  the  |)estilential  breath  of  a  far-away,  un- 
healthy  land. 

In  his  hours  of  greatest  suffering  he  had  never 
felt  himself  so  sunk  in  a  foul  pit  of  misery.  It 
was  as  though  he  had  given  the  last  wrench  ;  there 
was  no  fibre  of  attachment  left.  In  tearing  up  the 
roots  of  every  affection  he  had  not  hitherto  had 
the  distressful  feeling  which  now  came  over  him, 
like  that  of  a  lost  dog.  It  was  no  longer  a  tortur- 
ing mortal  pain,  but  the  frenzy  of  a  forlorn  and 
homeless  animal,  the  physical  anguisli  of  a  vaga- 
bond creature  without  a  roof  for  shelter,  lashed  by 
the  rain,  the  wind,  the  storm,  all  the  brutal  forces 
of  the  universe.  As  he  set  foot  on  the  vessel,  as 
he  went  into  the  cabin  rocked  by  the  waves,  the 
very  flesh  of  the  man,  who  had  always  slept  in  a 
motionless  and  steady  bed,  had  risen  up  against 
the  insecurity  henceforth  of  all  his  morrows.  Till 
now  that  flesh  had  been  protected  by  a  solid  wall 
built  into  the  earth  which  held  it,  by  the  certainty 
of  resting  in  the  same  spot,  uucKt  a  roof  which 
could  resist  the  gale.  Now  all  that,  which  it  was 
a  pleasure  to  defy  in  the  warmth  of  home,  must 
become  a  peril  and  a  constant  discomfort.     No 

2q6 


Pierre  and  Jean 


earth  under  foot,  only  the  greedy,  heaving,  com- 
plaining sea  ;  no  space  around  for  walking,  running, 
losing  the  way,  only  a  few  yards  of  planks  to  pace 
like  a  convict  among  other  prisoners  ;  no  trees,  no 
gardens,  no  streets,  no  houses  ;  nothing  but  water 
and  clouds.  And  the  ceaseless  motion  of  the  ship 
beneath  his  feet.  On  stormy  days  he  must  lean 
against  the  wainscot,  hold  on  to  the  doors,  cling 
to  the  edge  of  the  narrow  berth  to  save  himself 
from  rolling  out.  On  calm  days  he  would  hear 
the  snorting  throb  of  the  screw,  and  feel  the  swift 
flight  of  the  ship,  bearing  him  on  in  its  unpausing, 
regular,  exasperating  race. 

And  he  was  condemned  to  this  vagabond  con- 
vict's life  solely  because  his  mother  had  yielded  to 
a  man's  caresses. 

He  walked  on,  his  heart  sinking  with  the  de- 
spairing sorrow  of  those  who  are  doomed  to  exile. 
He  no  longer  felt  a  haughty  disdain  and  scornful 
hatred  of  the  strangers  he  met,  but  a  woeful  im- 
pulse to  speak  to  them,  to  tell  them  all  that  he  had 
to  quit  France,  to  be  listened  to  and  comforted. 
There  was  in  the  very  depths  of  his  heart  the 
shame-faced  need  of  a  beggar  who  would  fain  hold 
out  his  hand — a  timid  but  urgent  need  to  feel  that 
some  one  would  grieve  at  his  departing. 

He  thought  of  Marowsko.  The  old  Pole  was 
207 


Pierre   aiul   jcan 

the  only  person  who  loved  him  well  rnouoii  to  feci 
true  and  keen  emotion,  and  the  doctor  al  once  de- 
termined to  go  and  sec  him. 

When  he  entered  the  shop,  the  druggist,  who 
was  pounding  powders  in  a  marble  mortar,  started 
and  left  his  work. 

"  Vou  are  never  to  be  seen  nowadays,"  said  he. 

Pierre  explained  that  he  had  had  a  great  many 
serious  matters  to  attend  to,  but  without  giving  the 
reason,  and  he  took  a  seat,  asking  : 

"Well,  and  how  is  business  doing?" 

Business  was  not  doing  at  all.  Competition 
was  fearful,  and  rich  folks  rare  in  that  workmen's 
quarter.  Nothing  would  sell  but  cheap  drugs,  and 
the  doctors  did  not  prescribe  the  costlier  and  more 
complicated  remedies  on  which  a  profit  is  made  of 
five  hundred  per  cent.  The  old  fellow  ended  by 
saying  :  "  If  this  goes  on  for  three  months  I  shall 
shut  up  shop.  If  I  did  not  count  on  you,  dear 
good  doctor,  I  should  have  turned  shoe-black  by 
this  time." 

Pierre  felt  a  pang,  and  made  up  his  mind  to 
deal  the  blow  at  once,  since  it  must  be  done. 

"  I — oh,  I  cannot  be  of  any  use  to  you.  I  am 
leaving  Havre  early  next  month." 

Marowsko  took  off  his  spectacles,  so  great  was 
his  agitation. 

208 


Pierre  and  Jean 

"  You  !     Y(ju  !     What  arc  you  saying  ?  " 

"  I  say  that  I  am  going  away,  my  poor  friend." 

The  old  man  was  stricken,  feeling  his  last  hope 
slipping  from  under  him,  and  he  suddenly  turned 
against  this  man,  whom  he  had  followed,  whom  he 
loved,  whom  he  had  so  implicitly  trusted,  and  who 
forsook  him  thus. 

He  stammered  out  : 

"  You  are  surely  not  going  to  play  me  false — 
you?" 

Pierre  was  so  deeply  touched  that  he  felt  in- 
clined to  embrace  the  old  fellow. 

"  I  am  not  playing  you  false.  I  have  not 
found  anything  to  do  here,  and  I  am  going  as 
medical  officer  on  board  a  Transatlantic  passenger 
boat." 

"  O  Monsieur  Pierre  !  And  you  always  prom- 
ised you  would  help  me  to  make  a  living  !  " 

"  What  can  I  do  ?  I  must  make  my  own  liv- 
ing.    I  have  not  a  farthing  in  the  world." 

Marowsko  said  :  "  It  is  wrong  ;  what  you  are 
doing  is  very  wrong.  There  is  nothing  for  me  but 
to  die  of  hunger.  At  my  age  this  is  the  end  of  all 
things.  It  is  wrong.  You  are  forsaking  a  poor 
old  man  who  came  here  to  be  with  you.     It  is 


wrong. 


Pierre  tried  to  explain,  to  protest,  to  give  rea- 
^  209 


Pierre  and  Jean 


sons,  to  prove  that  lie  could  not  have  done  other- 
wise ;  the  Pole,  enraged  by  his  desertion,  would 
not  listen  to  him,  and  he  ended  by  saying,  with  an 
allusion  no  doubt  to  j)olitical  events  : 

"  You  French — you  never  keej)  your  word  !  " 

At  this  Pierre  rose,  ulTended  on  his  part,  and 
taking  rather  a  high  tone  he  said  : 

"  You  are  unjust,  père  Marowsko  ;  a  man  must 
have  very  strong  motives  to  act  as  I  have  done 
and  you  ought  to  understand  that.  Au  revoir — I 
hope  I  may  find  you  more  reasonable."  And  he 
went  awa)'. 

"Well,  well,"  he  thought,  "not  a  soul  will  feel 
a  sincere  regret  for  me." 

His  mind  sought  through  all  the  people  he 
knew  or  had  known,  and  among  the  faces  which 
crossed  his  memory  he  saw  that  of  the  girl  at  the 
tavern  who  had  led  him  to  doubt  his  mother. 

He  hesitated,  having  still  an  instinctive  grudge 
against  her,  then  suddenly  reflected  on  the  other 
hand  :  "  After  all,  she  was  right."  And  he  looked 
«bout  him  to  fmd  the  turning. 

The  beer-shop,  as  it  happened,  was  full  of  people, 
and  also  full  of  smoke.  The  customers,  tradesmen, 
and  labourers,  for  it  was  a  holiday,  were  shouting, 
calling,  laughing,  and  the  master  himself  was  wait- 
ing on  them,  running  from  table  tu  table,  carrying 

2IO 


Pierre  and  Jean 


away  empty  glasses  and  returning  tlicm  crowned 
with  froth. 

When  Pierre  had  found  a  seat  not  far  from  tlie 
desk  he  waited,  hoping  that  the  girl  would  see  him 
and  recognise  him.  But  she  passed  him  again  and 
again  as  she  went  to  and  fro,  j)attering  her  feet 
under  her  skirts  with  a  smart  little  strut.  At  last 
he  rapped  a  coin  on  the  table,  and  she  hurried  up. 

"What  will  you  take,  sir?" 

She  did  not  look  at  him  ;  her  mind  was  ab- 
sorbed in  calculations  of  the  liquor  she  had  served. 

**  Well,"  said  he,  "  this  is  a  pretty  way  of  greet- 
ing a  friend." 

She  fixed  her  eyes  on  his  face.  "Ah!"  said 
she  hurriedly.  "  Is  it  you  ?  You  are  pretty 
well  ?  But  I  have  not  a  minute  to-day.  A  bock 
did  you  wish  for  ?  " 

"Yes,  a  bock  !" 

When  she  brought  it  he  said  : 

"  I  have  come  to  say  good-bye.  I  am  going 
away." 

And  she  replied  indifferently  : 

"  Indeed.     Where  are  you  going?" 

"To  America." 

"  A  very  fine  country,  they  say." 

And  that  was  all  ! 

Really  he  was  very  ill-advised  to  address  her 

211 


Pierre   and  Jean 

on  such  a  busy  day  ;  there  were  too  many  people 
in  the  cafc^. 

Pierre  went  down  to  the  sea.  As  he  reached 
the  jetty  he  descried  the  Pearl  ;  his  father  and 
Beausirc  were  coming  in.  Papagris  was  j)ulling, 
and  the  two  men,  seated  in  tiie  stern,  smoked  their 
pipes  with  a  look  of  perfect  happiness.  As  they 
went  past  the  doctor  said  to  himself  :  "  Blessed  are 
the  simple-minded  !  "  And  he  sat  down  on  one  of 
the  benches  on  the  breakwater,  to  try  to  lull  him- 
self in  animal  drowsiness. 

Wiien  he  went  home  in  the  evening  his  mother 
said,  without  daring  to  lift  her  eyes  to  his  face  : 

"  Vou  will  want  a  heap  of  things  to  take  with 
you.  I  have  ordered  your  under-linen,  and  I  went 
into  the  tailor's  shop  about  cloth  clothes  ;  but  is 
there  nothing  else  you  need — things  which  I,  jier- 
haps,  know  nothing  about  ?  " 

His  lips  parted  to  say,  "No,  nothing."  But 
he  reflected  that  he  must  accept  the  means  of  get- 
ting a  decent  outfit,  and  he  replied  in  a  very  calm 
voice  :  "  I  hardly  know  myself,  yet.  1  will  make 
inquiries  at  the  ofhce." 

He  inquired,  and  they  gave  him  a  list  of  indis- 
pensable necessaries.  His  mother,  as  she  took  it 
from  his  hand,  looked  up  at  him  for  the  first  time 
for  very  long,  and  in  the  depths  of  her  eyes  there 

212 


Pierre  and  Jean 

was  tho  humble  expression,  gentle,  sad,  and  be- 
seeching, of  a  dog  that  has  been  beaten  and  begs 
forgiveness. 

On  the  I  St  of  October  the  Lorraine  from 
Saint-Nazaire,  came  into  the  harbour  of  Havre  to 
sail  on  the  7th,  bound  for  New  York,  and  Pierre 
Roland  was  to  take  possession  of  the  little  floating 
cabin  in  which  henceforth  his  life  was  to  be  con- 
fined. 

Next  day  as  he  was  going  out,  he  met  his 
mother  on  the  stairs  waiting  for  him,  to  murmur 
in  an  almost  inaudible  voice  : 

"  You  would  not  like  me  to  help  you  to  put 
things  to  rights  on  board  ?  " 

"  No,  thank  you.     Everything  is  done." 

Then  she  said  : 

"  I  should  have  liked  to  see  your  cabin." 

"There  is  nothing  to  sec.  It  is  very  small  and 
very  ugly." 

And  he  went  downstairs,  leaving  her  stricken, 
leaning  against  the  wall  with  a  wan  face. 

Now  Roland,  who  had  gone  over  the  Lorraine 
that  very  day,  could  talk  of  nothing  all  dinner- 
time but  this  splendid  vessel,  and  wondered  that 
his  wife  should  not  care  to  see  it  as  their  son  was 
to  sail  on  board. 

Pierre  had  scarcely  any  intercourse  with  his 
213 


Pierre  and  Jean 


family  d urine:  the  days  whicli  followed.  Ile  was 
nervous,  irritable,  hard,  and  his  rou<::h  sj)eech 
seemed  to  lash  every  one  indiscriminately.  But 
the  day  before  he  left  he  was  suddenly  rjuite 
changed,  and  much  softened.  As  he  embraced 
his  parents  before  going  to  sleep  on  board  for  the 
first  time  he  said  : 

"  Vou  will  come  to  say  good-bye  to  me  on 
board,  will  you  not  ?" 

Roland  exclaimed  : 

"Why,  yes,  of  course — of  course,  Louise  ?" 

"Certainly,  certainly,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

Pierre  went  on  :  "  We  sail  at  eleven  precisely. 
You  must  be  there  by  half-past  nine  at  the  latest." 

"  Ilah  !  "  cried  his  father.  "  A  good  idea  !  As 
soon  as  we  have  bid  you  good-bye,  we  will  make 
haste  on  board  the  Pearl,  and  look  out  for  you  be- 
yond the  jetty,  so  as  to  see  you  once  more.  What 
do  you  say,  Louise  ?" 

"  Certainly." 

Roland  went  on:  "And  in  that  way  you  will 
not  lose  sight  of  us  among  the  crowd  which 
throngs  the  breakwater  when  the  great  liners  sail. 
It  is  impossible  to  distinguish  your  own  friends  in 
the  mob.     Does  that  meet  your  views?" 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure  ;  that  is  settled." 

An  hour  later  he  was  Iving  in  his  berth — a  lit- 
214 


Pierre  and  Jean 

tic  crib  as  long  and  narrow  as  a  coffin.  There  he 
remained  with  his  eyes  wide  open  for  a  long  time, 
thinking  over  all  that  had  happened  during  the 
last  two  months  of  his  life,  especially  in  his  own 
soul.  By  dint  of  suffering  and  making  others 
suffer,  his  aggressive  and  revengeful  anguish  had 
lost  its  edge,  like  a  hlunted  sword.  He  scarcely 
had  the  heart  left  in  him  to  owe  any  one  or  any- 
thing a  grudge  ;  he  let  his  rebellious  wrath  (loat 
away  down  stream,  as  his  life  must.  He  was  so 
weary  of  wrestling,  weary  of  fighting,  weary  of 
hating,  weary  of  everything,  that  he  was  quite 
worn  out,  and  tried  to  stupefy  his  heart  with 
forgetfulness  as  he  dropped  asleep.  He  heard 
vaguely,  all  about  him,  the  unwonted  noises  of  the 
ship,  slight  noises,  and  scarcely  audible  on  this 
calm  night  in  port  ;  and  he  felt  no  more  of  the 
dreadful  wound  which  had  tortured  hini  hitherto, 
but  the  discomfort  and  strain  of  its  healing. 

He  had  been  sleeping  soundly  when  the  stir  of 
the  crew  roused  him.  It  was  day  ;  the  tidal  train 
had  come  down  to  the  pier  bringing  the  passengers 
from  Paris.  Then  he  wandered  about  the  vessel 
among  all  these  busy,  bustling  folks  inquiring  for 
their  cabins,  questioning  and  answering  each  other 
at  random,  in  the  scare  and  fuss  of  a  voyage  already 
begun.     After  greeting  tiic  Captain  and  shaking 

215 


Pierre  and  Jean 

hands  with  liis  comnidc  the  jnirsrr,  he  went  into 
the  saloon  where  some  En<xlishnien  were  ahcady 
asleep  in  the  corners.  The  laru^e  low  rot)ni,  witli  its 
white  marble  panels  framed  in  gilt  beading,  was  fur- 
nished with  looking-glasses,  which  prolonged,  in 
endless  perspective,  the  long  tables  flanked  by 
pivot-seats  covered  with  red  velvet.  It  was  fit, 
indeed,  to  be  the  vast  floating  cosmopolitan  dining- 
hall,  where  the  rich  natives  of  two  continents  might 
eat  in  common.  Its  magnificent  luxury  was  that  of 
great  hotels,  and  tiieatrcs,  and  public  rooms  ;  the 
imposing  and  commonplace  luxury  wiiicii  appeals 
to  the  eye  of  the  millionaire. 

The  doctor  was  on  the  point  of  turning  into 
the  second-class  saloon,  when  he  remembered  that 
a  large  cargo  of  emigrants  had  come  on  board  the 
night  before,  and  he  went  down  to  the  lower  deck, 
lie  was  met  by  a  sickening  smell  of  dirty,  pov- 
erty-stricken humanity,  an  atmosphere  of  naked 
flesh  (far  more  revolting  than  the  odour  of  fur  or 
the  skin  of  wild  beasts).  There,  in  a  sort  of  base- 
ment, low  and  (lark,  like  a  gallery  in  a  mine,  Pierre 
could  discern  some  hundreds  of  men,  women,  and 
children,  stretched  on  shelves  fixed  one  above  an- 
other, or  lying  on  the  floor  in  heaps.  He  could 
not  see  their  faces,  but  could  dimly  make  out  this 
squalid,  ragged  crowd  of  wretches,  beaten   in  the 

2i0 


Pierre  and  Jean 

strup^glc  for  life,  worn  oui  and  crushed,  scttinp^ 
forlh,  each  with  a  star\'ing  wife  and  weakly  ehil- 
dren,  for  an  unknown  land  where  they  hoped,  per- 
haps, not  to  die  of  hunger.  And  as  he  thought  of 
their  past  labour — wasted  labour,  and  barren  efTort 
— of  the  mortal  struggle  taken  up  afresh  and  in 
vain  each  day,  of  the  energy  expended  by  this  tat- 
tered crew  who  were  going  to  begin  again,  not 
knowing  where,  this  life  of  hideous  misery,  he 
longed  to  cry  out  to  them  : 

"  Tumble  yourselves  overboard,  rather,  with 
your  women  and  your  little  ones."  And  his  heart 
ached  so  with  pity  that  he  went  away  unable  to 
endure  the  sight. 

He  found  his  father,  his  mother,  Jean,  and  Mme. 
Rosémilly  waiting  for  him  in  his  cabin. 

*'  So  early  !  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mme.  Roland  in  a  trembling  voice. 
"  We  wanted  to  have  a  little  time  to  see  you." 

He  looked  at  her.  She  was  dressed  all  in  black 
as  if  she  were  in  mourning,  and  he  noticed  that 
her  hair,  which  only  a  month  ago  had  been  gray, 
was  now  almost  white.  It  was  very  diflicult  to 
find  space  for  four  persons  to  sit  down  in  the  little 
room,  and  he  himself  got  on  to  his  bed.  The  door 
was  left  open,  and  they  could  see  a  great  crowd 
hurrying  by,  as  if  it  wxre  a  street  on  a  holiday,  for 

217 


Pierre  and  Jean 

all  the  friomls  of  the  passcnc^crs  and  a  host  of  in- 
quisitive visitors  had  invaded  the  huge  vessel.  They 
pervaded  tlie  passages,  tlic  saloons,  ever  eorner  of 
the  ship  ;  and  heads  peered  in  al  the  doorway  while 
a  voice  nuirnuired  outside:  "That  is  the  doctor's 
cabin." 

Then  Pierre  shut  the  door  ;  but  no  sooner  was 
he  shut  in  with  his  own  party  than  he  longed  to 
open  it  again,  for  the  bustle  outside  covered  their 
agitation  and  want  of  words. 

Mme.  Rosémilly  at  last  felt  she  must  speak. 

"  Very  little  air  comes  in  through  those  little 
windows." 

"  Port-holes,"  said  Pierre.  He  showed  her  how 
thick  the  glass  was,  to  enable  it  to  resist  the  most 
violent  shocks,  and  took  a  long  time  explaining  the 
fastening.  Roland  presently  asked  :  "  And  you 
have  your  doctor's  shop  here  ?" 

The  doctor  opened  a  cuj)board  and  displayed 
an  array  of  phials  ticketed  with  Latin  names  on 
white  paper  labels.  He  took  one  out  and  enumer- 
ated the  properties  of  its  contents;  then  a  second 
and  a  third,  a  perfect  lecture  on  tlu-rapeutics,  to 
which  they  all  listened  with  great  attention.  Ro- 
land, shaking  his  head,  said  again  and  again  : 
"  IIow  very  interesting  !"  There  was  a  tap  at  the 
door. 

218 


Pierre  and  Jean 

"  Come  in,"  said  Picric,  and  Captain  Bcausirc 
appeared. 

"  I  am  late,"  he  said  as  he  shook  hands,  "  I  did 
not  want  to  be  in  the  way."  He,  too,  sat  down 
on  the  bed  and  silence  fell  once  more. 

Suddenly  the  Captain  pricked  his  ears.  lie 
could  hear  orders  being  given,  and  he  said  : 

"  It  is  time  for  us  to  be  off  if  we  mean  to 
get  on  board  the  Pearl  to  see  you  once  more 
outside,  and  bid  you  good-bye  out  on  the  open 
sea." 

Old  Roland  was  very  eager  about  this,  to  im- 
press the  voyagers  on  board  the  Lorraine,  no 
doubt,  and  he  rose  in  haste, 

"Good-bye,  my  boy."  He  kissed  Pierre  on  the 
whiskers  and  then  opened  the  door. 

Mme.  Roland  had  not  stirred,  but  sat  with 
downcast  eyes,  very  pale.  Her  husband  touched 
her  arm. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "we  must  make  haste,  we 
have  not  a  minute  to  spare." 

She  pulled  herself  up,  went  to  her  son  and 
offered  him  first  one  and  then  another  cheek  of 
white  wax  which  he  kissed  without  saying  a  word. 
Then  he  shook  hands  with  Mme.  Rosémilly  and 
his  brother,  asking  : 

"And  when  is  the  wedding  to  be  ?" 
219 


Pierre  and  Jean 

•'  I  do  not  know  yet  exactly.  Wc  will  make 
it  tit  in  with  one  of  your  return  voyages." 

At  last  they  were  all  out  of  the  cabin,  and  up 
on  deck  among  the  crowd  of  visitors,  porters,  and 
sailors.  The  steam  was  snorting  in  the  huge  belly 
of  the  vessel,  which  seemed  to  quiver  with  impa- 
tience. 

•'  Good-bye,"  said  Roland  in  a  great  bustle. 
"  Good-bye,"  replied  Pierre,  standing  on  one  of 
the  landing-planks  lying  between  the  deck  of  the 
Lorraine  and  the  quay.    He  shook  hands  all  round 
once  more,  and  they  were  gone. 

"  Make  haste,  jump  into  the  carriage,"  cried 
the  father. 

A  fly  was  waiting  for  them  and  took  them  to 
the  outer  harbour,  where  Papagris  had  the  Pearl 
in  readiness  to  put  out  to  sea. 

There  was  not  a  breath  of  air  ;  it  was  one  of 
those  crisp,  still  autumn  days,  when  the  sheeny 
sea  looks  as  cold  and  hard  as  polished  steel. 

Jean  took  one  oar,  the  sailor  seized  the  other 
and  they  pulled  off.  On  tiie  i)riakwater,  on  the 
piers,  even  on  the  granite  parapets,  a  crowd  stood 
packed,  hustling,  and  noisy,  to  sec  the  Lorraine 
come  out.  The  Pearl  glided  down  between  these 
two  waves  of  humanity  and  was  soon  outside  the 
mole. 

220 


Pierre  and  Jean 


Captain  Beausirc,  seated  between  the  two 
women,  held  the  tiller,  and  he  said  : 

"  You  will  see,  we  shall  be  close  in  her  way — 
close." 

And  the  two  oarsmen  pulled  with  all  their 
might  to  get  out  as  far  as  possible.  Suddenly 
Roland  cried  out  : 

"  Here  she  comes  !  I  see  her  masts  and  her 
two  funnels  1  She  is  coming  out  of  the  inner 
harbour." 

"  Cheerily,  lads  !  "  cried  Beausire. 

Mme.  Roland  took  out  her  handkerchief  and 
held  it  to  her  eyes. 

Roland  stood  up,  clinging  to  the  mast,  and  an- 
swered : 

"  At  this  moment  she  is  working  round  in  the 
outer  harbour.  She  is  standing  still — now  she 
moves  again  !  She  was  taking  the  tow-rope  on 
board  no  doubt.  There  she  goes.  Bravo  !  She 
is  between  the  piers  !  Do  you  hear  the  crowd 
shouting  ?  Bravo  !  The  Neptune  has  her  in  tow. 
Now  I  see  her  bows — here  she  comes — here  she 
is  !  Gracious  Heavens,  what  a  ship  !  Look  ! 
look  !  " 

Mme.  Rosémilly  and  Beausire  looked  behind 
them,  the  oarsmen  ceased  pulling  ;  only  Mme. 
Roland  did  not  stir. 

221 


Pierre  and  Jean 

Tlic  immense  steamship,  towed  by  a  powerful 
tu"^,  which,  in  front  of  her,  looked  like  a  caterpillar, 
came  slowly  anil  majestically  out  of  the  harbour. 
And  the  good  ])coplc  of  Havre,  who  crowded  the 
piers,  the  beach,  and  tiic  windows,  carried  away  by 
a  burst  of  patriotic  enthusiasm,  cried.  "  F/rr  la 
Lorraine!''  with  acclamations  and  applause  for 
this  magnificent  beginning,  this  birth  of  the  beauti- 
ful daughter  given  to  the  sea  by  the  great  maritime 
town. 

She,  as  soon  as  she  had  passed  beyond  the  nar- 
row channel  between  the  two  granite  walls,  feeling 
herself  free  at  last,  cast  off  the  tow-ropes  and  went 
off  alone,  like  a  monstrous  creature  walking  on 
the  waters. 

"  Here  she  is — here  she  comes,  straight  down 
on  us  !  "  Roland  kept  shouting  ;  and  Beausire, 
beaming,  exclaimed  :  "  What  did  I  promise  you  ! 
Heh  !     Do  I  know  the  way  ?" 

Jean  in  a  low  tone  said  to  his  mother  : 
"  Look,  mother,  she  is  close  upon  us  !  "  And 
Mme.  Roland  uncovered  her  eyes,  blinded  with 
tears. 

The  Lorraine  came  on,  still  under  the  impetus 
of  her  swift  exit  from  the  harbour,  in  the  brilliant, 
calm  weather.  Beausire,  with  his  glass  to  his  eye, 
called  out  : 

222 


Pierre  and  Jean 


•'  Look  out  !  M.  Pierre  is  at  the  stern,  all 
alone,  plainly  to  be  seen  !     Look  out  !  " 

The  ship  was  almost  touching  the  Pearl  now, 
as  tall  as  a  mountain  and  as  swift  as  a  train.  Mme. 
Roland,  distraught  and  desperate,  held  out  her 
arms  towards  it  ;  and  she  saw  her  son,  her  Pierre, 
with  his  officer's  cap  on,  throwing  kisses  to  her 
with  both  hands. 

But  he  was  going  away,  flying,  vanishing,  a 
tiny  speck  already,  no  more  than  an  imperceptible 
spot  on  the  enormous  vessel.  She  tried  still  to 
distinguish  him,  but  she  could  not. 

Jean  took  her  hand. 

"  You  saw  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Yes,  I  saw.     How  good  he  is  !  " 

And  they  turned  to  go  home. 

"  Cristi  !  How  fast  she  goes  !"  exclaimed  Ro- 
land with  enthusiastic  conviction. 

The  steamer,  in  fact,  was  shrinking  every  sec- 
ond, as  though  she  were  melting  away  in  the  ocean. 
Mme.  Roland,  turning  back  to  look  at  her,  watched 
her  disappearing  on  the  horizon,  on  her  way  to  an 
unknown  land  at  the  other  side  of  the  world. 

In  that  vessel  which  nothing  could  stay,  that 
vessel  which  she  soon  would  see  no  more,  was  her 
son,  her  poor  son.  And  she  felt  as  though  half 
her  heart  had  gone  with  'him  ;    she  felt,  too,  as  if 

223 


Pierre  and  Jean 

her  life  were  eiuled  ;  yes,  and  she  felt  as  though 
she  would  never  see  the  ehild  again. 

"Wiiv  are  vt)U  erying?"  asked  her  iuishand, 
"when  vou  knuw  he  will  l)e  haek  again  within  a 
nionlh." 

She  stammered  out  :  "  I  don't  know  ;  I  cry  be- 
cause I  am  hurt." 

When  they  had  landed,  Bcausire  at  once  took 
leave  of  them  to  go  to  breakfast  with  a  friend. 
Then  Jean  led  the  way  with  Mme.  Rosémilly,  and 
Roland  said  to  his  wife  : 

"  A  very  fme  fellow,  all  the  same,  is  our  Jean." 

"Yes,"  replied  liie  mother. 

And  her  mind  being  too  mueh  bewildered  to 
think  of  what  she  was  saying,  she  went  on  : 

"  I  am  very  glad  that  he  is  to  marry  Mme. 
Rosémilly." 

The  worthy  man  was  astounded. 

"  Heh  ?  What  ?  He  is  to  marry  Mme.  Rosé- 
milly ?" 

'*  Yes,  we  meant  to  ask  your  opinion  about  it 
this  very  day." 

"  Bless  me  !  And  has  this  engagement  been 
long  in  the  wind  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  only  a  very  few  days.  Jean  wished 
to  make  sure  that  she  would  accept  him  btforc 
consulting  you." 

224 


Pierre  and  Jean 


Roland  rubbed  his  hands. 

"  Very  good.  Very  good.  It  is  capital.  I 
entirely  approve." 

As  they  were  about  to  turn  off  from  the  quay 
down  the  Boulevard  François  i^^,  his  wife  once 
more  looked  back  to  cast  a  last  look  at  the  high 
seas,  but  she  could  see  nothing  now  but  a  puff  of 
gray  smoke,  so  far  away,  so  faint  that  it  looked 
like  a  film  of  haze. 


15  225 


THE     PORTRAITS     OF 
GUY     DE     MAUPASSANT 


T II  I'    iM)  ]<r  \i  A  I  rs    ()  V 

GUY     1)1':     MAIJPASSAX  r 


LiKK  his  master,  Flaubert, 
who  exercised  such  a  power- 
ful influence  un  his  ideas  and 
his  manner  of  life,  (iuy  de 
Maupassant  was  more  or  less 
hostile  to  portraiture,  or 
rather  to  the  publicity  of  por- 
traiture. He  thought  that  an 
authors  work  was  all  tliat 
concerned  the  multitude,  that 
curiosity  about  a  writer's  ap- 
pearance on  the  part  of  a 
reader  was  indiscreet  and 
orofane  to  a  certain  extent, 
and  ([uitc  unworthy  f»f  serious 
consideration. 

"I  have  made  it  a  fi.xed  rule,"  wrote  Maupissant  about  1SS5 
(in  a  letter  to  the  papers  of  wh  h  we  give  a  facsimile),  '•  never 
to  allow  rny  portrait  to  be  published  when  it  was  within  my 
power  to  prevent  it.  All  the  exceptions  have  been  due  to 
occasions  when  I  was  taken  more  or  less  unawares." 

What  was  the  cause  of  this  scorn  for  reproductions  of  his 
own  image  on  the  part  of  the  author  of  so  many  tales  in  which 
he  boldly  and  habitually  put  forward  his  own  personality  when 
i^  220 


GUY   DE   M.AUPASSANT 

From  a  drawing  made  in  iS 


TJK"    Poitrails    of  (;ii\    de    Maupassant 


GLV    PK   MAll'ASSANT 

In  1880 

of  vulgarity,  in  so  far  as  his 
twisted  moustaches,  his  mus- 
cular neck,  the  hair  brushed 
across  his  forehead,  and  his 
confident  expression  gave  him 
somewhat  the  air  of  a  certain 
type  of  non-commissioned 
officer,  or  of  a  young  squireen 
of  Lower  Normandy,  irresisti- 
ble to  women. 

This  character  of  strength, 
muscular  vigour,  exuberant 
health  and  universal  con- 
quest had  impressed  itself  on 
him  without  any  effort  on 
his  part  in  his  rough  life  in 
the  ojjen  air  and  on  the  water, 
long  before  he  had  become  a 


y  so  doing  he  could  give 
greater  vivacUy  to  the  episode 
he  was  relating  ?  Certainly  no 
spirit  of  pose  ur  desire  to  be 
singular,  no  constitutional 
timidity,  no  fear  that  his  out- 
ward man  might  give  his  ad- 
mirers a  disagreeable  impres- 
sion. 

Ciuy  de  Maupassant  was  a 
liandsome  young  Norman, 
somewhat  massive,  l)ut  firmly 
knit  and  well  set  up,  with  a 
resolute  and  manly  face,  which, 
in  theearly  days  of  his  vigorous 
youtli  was  not  without  a  strain 


i;UV    1)1.    MAUl'ASSANT 

I'rom  a  jjhotoRr.iph,  1888 


230 


The  Portraits   of  Guy   dc   Maupassant 


t;rY    PK    MAll'ASSANT 

From  a  pliotograph  l)y  Liébert,  1886 


successful  writer,  when  Ik; 
was  preparing  U)  enter  llu: 
government  office  in  whi(  h 
he  was  a  clerk  for  a  short 
lime.  In  all  the  portraits 
of  him  till  after  iSSo  we 
note  this  aspect  of  over- 
flowing life,  of  a  sanguine 
temperament,  and  of  a 
frame  made  for  theheahhy 
exercises  of  boating,  often 
evidently  cramped  and  ill 
at  ease  in  a  morning  coat 
or  a  frock  coat.  It  was 
this  which  when  he  was 
about  twenty-eight  gave  a 


y 


-^,-<i<.-<_-. 


^- 


y 


^.^<^ 


AuruoKAPn 


231 


The    Portraits   ol    Ciiv    dc    Maupassant 

somewhat  commonand 
rlunisy  appearance  U) 
the  man  wlio,  ten  years 
later,  was  so  anxious 
to  figure  as  a  man  of 
fashion,  and  to  enjoy 
and  to  defme  social 
success. 

Maupassint,  whom 
1  knew  intimately 
enough  towards  the 
close  of  his  life  to  be 
I  able  to  judge  him,  dis- 
liked portraits  and  their 
reproductions  because 
he  did  not  feel  himself 
to  be  a  "literary  man  "' 
in  the  trivial  and  vulgar 
sense  of  the  term,  and 
he  would  have  blushed 
to  pride  himself  on 
those  things  which  give  the  greatest  satisfaction  to  the  vanity  of 
mediocre  writers.  lie  disliked  to  see  his  features  rejiroduced 
for  the  same  reason  that  he  refused  decorations  and  academic 
honours,  and  all  the  distinctions  that  our  IVench  contem- 
poraries seem  to  desire  so  eagerly,  striving  after  paltry  honours 
which  would  soon  become  objects  of  derision,  if  proud  natures 
like  that  of  the  author  of  "  Pierre  et  Jean  "  were  less  rare. 

"A  man  must  be  very  modest,"  said  Flaubert,  "  if  he  thinks 
himself  honoured  by  honours  conferred  on  him.  ' 

There  are,  then,  no  painted  portraits  of  (luy  de  Maupassant, 
nor  any  sketches  by  artists  in  crayons  or  water-colours,  nor  even 
any  medallions  and  miniatures.  On  the  other  hand,  he  never 
attracted  the  attention  of  the  caricaturist,     'i'he  only  prcsent- 

23J 


GUV    DE    MAUPASSANT 

.After  .in  engraving  by  Boilc.iu 


1  he    Portraits   of   Guy    dc   Maupassant 

nicnls  llial  rciuain  to  us  arc  curtain  photograplis,  full  face, 
profile,  and  ilircc-(iuarters  face,  taken  uiorc  or  less  by  chance, 
at  sonic  Mionunt  when  the  realistic  iconophobe  was  complaisant 
beyond  his  wont.  Only  once  did  he  deliberately  break  through 
his  rule  of  refusing  to  sit  for  his  own  portrait  ;  this  was  in 
favour  of  Im  Kcviie  llliislr'et\  which  published  a  study  on  his 
works,  and  asked  for  a  sketch  from  nature.  He  allowed  this 
to  be  taken  in  his  study  ;  he  is  seated  in  the  attitude  usual  to 
him  when  he  talked  with  characteristic  ease,  charm  and  dis- 
tinction of  phrase,  his  legs  crossed,  his  hands  before  him.  his 
eyes  fixed  on  his  interlocutor.  This  portrait,  which  we  repro- 
duce, was  engraved  by  I>oileau,  and  is  the  best  we  have  of  the 
young  master  whose  end  was  so  tragic. 

The  others  are  all  from  photographs,  and  have  the  rigidity, 
the  studied  attitude,  the  lack  of  physical  case  and  unconscious- 
ness which  mark  all  such  works.  The  drawing  we  give  from 
a  photograph  by  Liébert  taken  in  iS86  is  the  most  expressive. 
It  is  still  Maupassant  the  sportsman  and  oarsman,  the  poet  of 
"La  Ivivandière"  and  the  story-teller  of  "La Maison  Tellier,"  the 
hero  of  amorous  adventures,  whose  doughty  feats  were  retailed 
at  the  literary  clubs,  a  Maupassant  in  the  full  vigour  of  manhood, 
in  whom  it  would  have  been  diflicultto  predict  a  future  ethero- 
maniac,  or  a  predestined  victim  of  hereditary  paralysis. 

The  other  versions  of  him  reproduced  here  from  etchings 
are  more  fanciful  and  conventional.  They  show  us  Maupassant 
as  he  may  have  appeared  in  his  official  hours,  his  hair  divided 
by  a  vulgar  parting,  a  moustache  destitute  of  character  adorning 
the  smug  oval  of  a  self-satisfied  countenance,  his  frock-coat 
fitting  closely  over  his  broad  chest,  his  black  cravat  with  its 
stiff  made  up  bow — the  general  appearance  of  a  functionary 
from  the  provinces. 

The  portrait  of  iS.SS,  re[)roduced  at  the  beginning  of  this 
note,  is  the  one  which  bears  most  likeness  to  our  lost  friend. 
Here  we  recognise  the  author  of  "  Horla,"  the  owner  of  the 


GIV   DK   MAUI'ASSANr 
I'rom  an  engraving  by  I-ekal,  1880 


The    Portraits   of  Ciiv    dc    Maupassant 

—  yacht  "  lUl  Ami,  "the  writer 

-^^^\»k  of     the    melancholy    pag«s 

1  called    "  Sur     IHau  "    the 

111. m  of  tlu-  woikl  of  his 
later  [)hase,  already  rest- 
less, suffering,  and  over- 
shadowed by  the  fatal 
crisis. 

After  (iuy  de  Maupas- 
sant's death  a  monument 
was  erected  to  him  in  Taris, 
in  the  Pare  Monceau  ;  it 
consists  of  a  bust  of  the 
master  of  narrative,  utterly 
wanting  in  character,  below 
which  a  Parisian  lady  reads 
one  of  his  novels,  having 
first  disposed  her  skirts  in  a  fashion  which  has  engrossed  the 
whole  of  the  sculptor's  art.  At  Rouen,  at  the  entrance  of  the 
Museum  (iardens,  facing  the  medallion  of  Flaubert,  there  is 
another  bust  in  yellow  bronze  of  poor  Maupassant,  who  seems 
to  be  protesting  against  this  desecration  of  his  features  in  the 
glare  of  a  public  garden. 

We  mention  these  posthumous  works  purely  as  memorials. 
The  soul,  the  expression,  the  animated  features  of  Maupassant 
have  found  no  interpreter.  He  put  all  his  life,  all  his  true 
jjhysiognomy  into  his  imperishable  tales,  so  varied,  so  richly 
coloured.  It  is  in  these  we  recognise  him.  He  was  right  to 
prohibit  the  publication  of  his  portraits.  They  did  not  depict 
the  real  asi)ect  of  the  man,  as  it  was  known  and  loved  by  his 
friends  -  the  mobile  face  animated  by  the  fine  eyes  which  had 
a  certain  bitterncs.s,  but  also  such  curiosity,  such  eagerness, 
such  a  (mssion  for  the  spectacle  of  men  and  things.  It  was 
im|>ossible  to  paint  sui  h  vivacity. 


The    Portraits   of  Guy    dc    Maupassant 

"  riicrc  is  soinclhiiiK  belter  than  huvinj^  many  portraits  and 
medals/'  said  another  famcjiis  Norman,  Harhcy  d'Aurevilly, 
"  and  tliat  is  to  have  none." 

It  is  everything  to  set  the  iniaginaticins  of  posterity  dreaming. 
Painters  as  a  rule  do  but  disconcert  the  fertile  visions  of 
readers,  always  ready  to  create  noble  forms  for  the  idea 
expression  of  those  tliey  love  t(j  divine  through  their  books. 

OCTAVE  UZANNE. 


Primed  by  Bali.anisne    Hanson  d-'  Co 
London  &*  Edinburgh 


THF.  LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  O!"  CAI.IIORNIA 
LOS  ANGLLLJS 


AA    000  726  930 


